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FEIEN^DSHIP 


NEW  YORK: 
LEAVITT     &     ALLEN. 


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CONTENTS 

The  Eainbow  Bridge ,    .         .    .      u 

The  Silver  Birdsnest— by  11.  F.  Gould      .     .         .         .    .         U 

Early  Days— by  R.  C.  Waterston 13 

The  Countess  Survilliers.  a  translated  Fragment  —  by  Nathaniel 

Greene 16 

To  M.  A 25 

Sonnet:  To   Louise  —  by  Mrs.  Ilofland 26 

The  Velvet  Hat— by  Mrs.  Seba  Smith     ; 27 

Early  Flowers  —  by  Mrs.  Whitman 2a 

A.  Love  Match — by  the  Author  of  "  Wealth  and  Fashion"  .  33 
To  *****,  the  Genius  ofPlaintive  Music  — by  S.  G.  Goodrich    S9 

The  Mantilla — by  Grenville  Mellen ;     ...    61 

The  Fatal  Choics  — by  Mrs.  L.  K.  Wells 64 

Life  — by  E.  A .     .     93 

Lines  Suggested  by  a  Picture  —  by  Mrs.  Whitman    .  95 

Stanzas  for  Music  —  by  the  Author  of  "  Miriam  "      .  98 

Phrenological  Speculations  —  by  Mrs.  Seba  Smith       .    .         .  100 

The  Politician  of  Podunk 109 

The  Thoughts  of  the  Dumb— by  J.  H.  Clinch 112 

Sea  Rhymes  —  Return  of  the  Victor  Ship  — by  James  T.  Fields  113 
Lines  written  on  the  Summit  of  Mount  Ilolyoke  —  Ly  Grenville 

Mellen 114 

A  Sketch  from  Life  — by  the  Author  of  "  Wealth  and  Fashion  "  119 

Lament  for  the  Decline  of  Poetry  —  a  Fragment 125 

Luxury,  or  the  Lady-Bird  —  by  Mrs.  Selia  Smith 126 

The  Journey  of  Memory  129 

The  Legend  of  the  Large  Feet  —  by  Miss  M.  A.  Browne  .  .  132 
Ancient  Reminiscences  —  by  the  Author  of  llie  "Three 

Experiments,"  &.c 161 

Etanzas    to  a  La>Jy  — by  Grenville  Mellen 173 


Till  CO.NTE.NTS 

The  Ilnimfs  of  tlie  Sen-Fowl 175 

To  a  Wi.d  Violet,  in  March— by  S.  C  Goodrich 175 

"Show  us  the  Fiitlier" — by  Mrs.  Sigouriiey 177 

The  lores  of  Old— by  W.  \V.  Morliiiid 173 

Tlie  Grave  of  Marqiie'te  —  by  ihe  Aiilhor  of  "Miriam "      .    .  181 
Mount  Auburn  —  by  Ihe  Aulhor  of  •' Skclches  of  the  Old 

Taiiiters  "...  184 

The  Debut— by  II    T.  Tuckerman U8 

The  ronf«ssion 191 

Tyre-     by  R.  C.  Walersxm MS 

A   Ncember  Landscape  —  by  Mrs.   Whilmon  .     .     .     .193 

The  Widow's  Hope  — by  II.  F.  Could la3 

Second  Thoughts  Uest  —  by  Miss  Sedgwick  •    i         .  201 

The  Fairies'    Dance 259 

The  Portrait  —  by   11.  F,  Gould .263 

Guess  my  Name .         .••  9$4 


THE   RAINBOW   BRIDGE 

Love  and  Hope  and  Youth, together 
Travelling  once  in  stormy  weather, 
Met  a  deep  and  gloomy  tide, 
Flowing  swifl  and  dark  and  wide. 
'T  was  named  the  river  of  Despair,  — 
And  many  a  wreck  was  floating  there. 
The  urchins  paused,  with  faces  grave, 
Debating  how  to  cross  tlie  wave, 
When  lo  !  the  curtain  of  the  storm 
Was  severed,  and  the  rainbow's  form 
Stood  against  the  parting  cloud. 
Emblem  of  peace  on  trouble's  shroud. 
Hope  pointed  to  the  signal  flying, 
And  the  three,  their  shoulders  plying 
O'er  the  stream  tlie  light  arch  threw 
A  rainbow  bridge  of  loveliest  hue  '. 
Now,  laughing  os  they  tripped  it  o'er, 
They  ga yly  sought  the  other  shore : 
But  soon  the  hills  began  to  frown. 
And  the  bright  sun  went  darkly  down. 
Though  their  step  waj  light  and  fleet. 
The  rainbow  vanished  'neath  their  feet,- 


/ 


10  KAINBOW   BKIDaii. 

And  down  tliey  went,  —  tlie  giddj  tilings;  — 

But  Hope  put  fortli  his  ready  wings,  — 

And  clinging  Love  and  Youth  he  bore 

In  triumph  to  the  other  shore. 

But  ne'er  I  ween  should  mortals  deem" 

On  rainbow  bridge  to  cross  a  stream. 

Unless  bright,  buoyant  Hope  is  nign, 

And.  —  lii^lit  as  Love  and  Youth,  —  they  fly. 


* 


THE    SILVER    BIRDSNEST. 

BY   H.   F.   GOULD. 

We  were  shown  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  Ingenuity  of 
birds,  a  few  days  since,  by  Dr.  Cook  of  this  borough.  It  was 
a  birdsncst,  made  entirely  of  silver  wires,  beautifully  woven 
together.  The  nest  was  found  on  a  sycamore  tree,  by  Dr. 
Francis  Beard  of  York  County.  It  was  the  nest  of  a  hanging- 
bird  ;  and  the  material  was  probably  obtained  from  a  soldier's 
epaulette,  wliich  it  had  found. —  West  Chester  Village  Rer 
ord,  Spiing  of  1338. 

A  STRANDED  soldier's  epaulet 

Tlie  waters  cast  ashore, 
A  little  winged  rover  met, 

And  eyed  it  o'er  and  o'er. 
The  silver  briorht  so  p'T-irfir)  ucr  .sight 

On  that  louo,  idle  vest, 
She  knew  not  why  she  sliould  deny 

Herself  a  silver  nest. 

The  shining  wire  she  pecked  and  twirled. 

Then  bore  it  to  her  bough, 
Where,  on  a  flowery  twig  't  was  curled, — 

The  bird  can  show  you  how : 
Cut,  when  enough  of  that  bright  stufF 

The  cunning  builder  bore 
Her  house  to  make,  she  would  not  take, 

Nor  did  she  covet,  more. 


/i 


19  SILVEK    BIIIDSNEST. 

And  wlien  tlie  little  artisan, 

While  neither  pride  nor  guilt 
Had  entered  in  her  pretty  plan, 

Her  resting-place  had  built ; 
With  here  and  there  a  plume  to  spare 

About  her  own  lioht  form 
Of  these,  inlaid  with  skill,  she  made 

A  lining  soft  and  warm. 

But,  do  you  tliink  the  tender  brooif 

She  fondled  there,  and  fed, 
Were  prouder,  when  they  understoo<? 

The  sheen  about  their  bed? 
Do  you  suppose  they  ever  rose 

Of  higher  powers  possessed, 
Because  tliey  knew  tJiey  peeped  and  pre^ 

Vt'itiuii  a  silver  ueati" 


EARLY    DAYS. 

BY  U.  C.  WATEKSrON. 

Who,  for  all  that  age  could  bring, 
Would  forget  life's  budding  spring? 
Hours  of  frolic  !  school-boy  days  ! 
Full  of  merry  pranks  and  plays ; 
When  the  untaught  spirit  beats 
With  a  thousand  wild  conceits; 
When  each  pleasure,  bright  and  new 
Sparkles  fresh  with  heavenly  dew. 
When  the  light  that  sliines  abroad, 
Seems  the  very  smile  of  God ; 
Who,  in  afler  toil  and  strife, 
Would  forget  the  inoru  of  life  ? 

Maturer  age  brings  riper  thought, 

Fills  with  nobler  hopes  the  mind, 
Seeks  the  truth  by  Prophets  sought. 

Toils  to  benefit  mankind  ;  — 
fet  who,  'mid  all  that  age  can  bring 
Would  forget  life's  budding  spring? 

•  •  »  »  » 

New-born  minds,  untouched  by  sin, 

Make  the  earth  seem  holy  ground ; 
Thus  the  innocence  within 

Sheds  its  light  on  all  around, 
Till  the  hills  and  flowers  and  streams 
Are  woven  o'er  with  golden  dreams. 


EARLY    DAYS. 

How  »)fl  in  youth  I  wandered  out, 
With  bounding  step  and  merry  shout, 
Running  and  k-aping  in  the  sun, 
With  heart  brimlul  of  joy  and  fun, 
Till  by  degrees  my  eye  grew  mild, 
And  I  became  less  gay  and  wild, 
And  every  thing  by  Nature  wrought 
Awakened  me  to  calmer  thought, 
And  ray  young  spirit,  unaware. 
Seemed  lifted  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 

w  «  -^  «  * 

How  oft  beneath  the  shadows  dim, 

I  sat  bepide  the  fountain's  brim, 

Watching  the  wild-wood  flowers,  which  there 

Breathed  their  sweet  perfume  to  the  air. 

And  saw  each  dew-bent  blossom  siiine 

Witli  sometliing  of  a  light  divine  ! 

How  oil  I  watched,  with  thoughtfu.  eye, 
Tlie  clouds  that  slowly  wandered  bj', 
Amid  an  atmosphere  of  blue, 
With  pearl  and  rose  and  amber  hue, 
And  felt,  as  thus  they  went  abroad, 
They  were  the  messengers  of  God ! 

And  when,  upon  the  river's  side, 
I  saw  the  silver  waters  glide ; 
While  my  school-mate,  half  in  play, 

Watched  the  tranquil  current  flow, 
And  souglit  to  draw  the  speckled  prej 

From  its  native  home  below ; 


EARLY    DAYS,  15 

How  often  have  I  felt  the  sight 
Fill  my  whole  being  with  delight, 
While  waves  below  and  clouds  above 
Stirred  my  young  heart  to  holy  love  I 

•  »  «  *  * 

Then  each  scene,  before  me  brought, 
Did  unfold  some  inward  tliounrht; 
Happy  moments  !     Golden  hours ! 

Pure  and  blessed  joys  of  youth  • 
Then  I  felt  those  inward  powers. 

That  now  pant  for  highest  truth ! 
Not  for  all  that  age  can  bring, 
Would  1  forget  Life's  budding  spring 


THE  COUNTESS  SURVILLIERS. 
A  TRANSLATED  FRAGMENT 

BY    NATHANIEL   GREENE. 

I  HAD  passed  an  hour  in  the  saloon  of  the 
Count  of  St.  Leu,  whose  palace  stands  conspicu- 
ous among  those  splendid  buildings  upon  the 
quay  of  the  Arno,  near  the  bridge  of  the  Holy 
Trinity,  in  Florence.  The  Count  was  confined 
to  his  bed  by  illness ;  his  customary  evening 
circle  awaited  him  in  vain ;  it  was  at  length 
announced,  that  he  was  too  ill  to  appear;  sherbet 
was  served,  and  the  guests  departed. 

Nothing  is  more  disa";reeable  in  a  strance 
city  tlian  an  interrupted  soiree,  by  which  our 
social  arrangements  for  the  evening  are  destroy- 
ed ;  one  then  feels  doubly  a  stranger.  M.  de 
D . . . ,  a  relative  of  Prince  Talleyrand,  proposed 
to  take  U3  to  the  Pergola,  where  the  "  Rosa- 
mond "  of  Donizetti  was  to  be  performed,  and  in 
which  Duprez  was  to  sing.  "  Rosamond  "  is  a 
feeble  composition.     It  is  said  of  this  work,  that 


THE    COUNTEKS    SURVILLIERS  1*7 

the  composer  had  been  captured  by  four  brig- 
ands, who  led  him  lo  their  cave,  and,  with  their 
bayonets  at  his  breast,  compelled  him  to  write  an 
opera.  "  Rosamond,"  written  in  one  night,  waa 
llie  result. 

We  approached  the  Pergola  ;  the  street  waa 
dark  and  the  theatre  closed.  Some  one  of  the 
neighbourhood  informed  us,  that  Duprez  was  to 
sing  at  the  Palazzo  Pucci,  in  a  concert  given  by 
a  celebrated  vocalist. 

"  We  may  as  well  proceed  to  the  Palazzo  Puc- 
ci," said  our  conductor,  with  a  smile  ;  and  away 
we  went. 

The  street  was  full  of  carriages,  and  the  hali 
crowded  with  people.  It  was  impossible  to  ob- 
tain a  place  for  one,  and  we  were  three.  M.  de 
D . . .  observed,  that  he  was  well  aquainted  with 
the  owner  of  the  palace,  a  wealthy  Englishman, 
who  often  indulged  in  the  generous  practice  of 
loaning  his  hall  and  his  lustres  to  artists,  for  these 
occasions.  "  We  must  obtain  admission  at  all 
hazards,"  added  he  ;  "I  have  just  heard,  that 
Duprez  is  to  sing  two  arias  from  '  Tell,'  and  that 
is  worth  more  than  the  whole  of  '  Rosamond.' 
Wait  for  me  but  one  minute." 

He   leaped    up  the    steps  with  the  light  and 
confiaent  tread  of  a  favored  family  friend. 
2 


18  THE    COUNTESS    SURVILLIERS. 

The  minute  lasted  an  hour.  At  lengih  we 
saw  him  returning,  and,  as  he  approached,  he 
threw  up  his  arms  in  token,  of  ill  success.  There 
were  already  more  people  in  the  hall  than  it 
would  hold  ;  even  the  owner  had  himself  retired 
to  make  room  for  strangers.  Could  hospitality 
further  go  ? 

"  We  will  to  the  Countess  Survilliers,"  said  M. 
de  D .  . . ;  "I  have  not  seen  her  for  five  weeks, 
and  will  introduce  you  to  her."  We  gladly 
acceded  to  the  proposal,  and  our  carriage  was 
soon  rolling  along  the  dark  and  solitary  streets 
leading  to  the  Ponte  Vecchio.  Crossing  the  Arno, 
we  penetrated  a  sombre  and  dilapidated  suburb, 
where  one  would  hardly  think  of  seeking  for  a 
queen's  palace.  It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if  we  our- 
selves were  going  into  exile. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  a  high  trellis ;  the 
servant  pulled  the  bell ;  it  seemed  like  ringing  at 
the  door  of  an  Egyptian  tomb,  so  many  were  the 
nnsweriniT  echoes  and  so  solemn  was  the  silence 
of  the  place.  At  length  the  slow  movement  of 
a  porter  was  heard.  Before  opening,  he  asked 
our  names.  M.  do  D . . .  gave  his,  which  was 
known  to  almost  every  porter  in  Florence,  and 
flic  gate  swung  upon  its  hinges. 

The  dark  and   deserted  court,  ihrough  which 


r  H  E    COUNTESS    S  U  U  V  1 1.  L I E  R  S  19 

we  passed,  was  rendered  still  more  dismal  by  the 
dying  flicker  of  a  solitary  lantern.  We  ascended 
a  broad,  resounding  staircase  ;  M.  de  D . . .,  after 
very  cavalierly  dismissing  the  old  porter,  opened 
the  first  door  of  the  apartments,  and  conducted 
js  to  the  grand  reception-room. 

Two  ladies  were  in  the  saloon.  One  of  them, 
the  ci-devant  queen  of  Spain,  appeared  to  have 
been  asleep  upon  a  sofa,  and  aroused  by  the  noise 
of  our  entrance.  The  other,  the  Princess  Char- 
lotte, her  daughter,  was  occupied  in  drawing  at 
a  small  table.  The  Countess  Survilliers  welcom- 
ed us  by  a  graceful  inclination  of  the  head,  and 
with  a  motion  of  her  hand  pointed  out  to  us  our 
seats.  She  was  ill  and  suffering  much  ;  her  pale 
countenance,  however,  yet  retained  its  noble  and 
dignified  expression.  The  Princess  Charlotte 
discontinued  her  drawing,  yet  preserved  a  cold 
and  melancholy  demeanor.  We  knew  not  how 
to  introduce  "conversation  ;  no  one  spoke ;  M.  de 
D  . . .  himself,  with  his  adventurous  boldness,  ac- 
quired by  constant  intercourse  with  the  world 
was  constrained  and  silent. 

The  impression  made  upon  me  by  this  group 
mav  well  be  imagined.  It  was  the  first  time  I 
had  seen  the  Countess,  and  I  understood  nothing 
pf  this  extraordinary  silence  in  a  Florentine  sa^ 


20  THE    COUNTESS   SLRVILLIERS. 

loon,  where  the  winged  words  generall/  fly  so 
rapidly  and  all  seem  to  speak  in  chorus.  1 
first  learned,  alas,  after  leaving  the  palace,  how 
mjch  of  meaning  and  consecrated  etiquette  lliero 
"ffas  in  this  reception. 

I  knew  not,  at  the  time,  that  a  dreadful  calam- 
ity liad  recently  fallen  upon  this  exiled  family , 
I  knew  not  that  this  young  and  lovely  princess 
was  the  widow  of  that  unfortunate  Napoleon,  the 
son  of  Hortense,  who  had  met  a  violent  death  in 
Ilomagna.  Time  had  robbed  the  catastrophe  of 
none  of  its  horrors,  which  were  constantly  pres- 
ent to  the  minds  of  these  sad  mourners.  But, 
instead  of  tears,  prevailed  that  deep-seated,  in- 
exhaustible, and  unconquerable  sorrow,  which  still 
endures  when  the  black  crape  has  faded,  and 
ceases  but  with  the  last  throb  of  the  broken  heart. 
A  widow  of  eighteen  years,  and  in  what  manner 
widowed  ?  There  arc  some  misfortunes  so  dread- 
ful, that  they  momentarily  shake  even  a  settled 
and  unwavering  faith  in  the  riiihtcousness  of 
(jod's  providence.  There  are  calamities,  cn- 
(irely  out  of  the  usual  course  of  human  events, 
apparently  intended  for  the  special  aflliciion  of 
some  devoted  individual,  and  resulting  from  a 
combination  of  circumstances  so  strange  and 
f"rightful,  that  to  the  skeptic  they  naturally  seem 


THE    COUNTESS    SURVILLIEKS  2l 

to  emanate  from  the  Spirit,  of  Evil.  It  was  not 
enough  that  a  young  girl,  full  of  grace  and  s[)int, 
like  this  Princess  Charlotte,  at  an  age  usually 
gilded  by  the  sunshine  of  careless  joy,  should  be 
called  to  mourn  all  those  illustrious  dead,  who,  to 
us,  are  merely  the  brilliant  subjects  of  universal 
history,  but  to  her  were  near  relatives  and  dear 
friends.  A  ray  of  happiness  seemed  at  last  to 
fall  upon  the  innocent  exile  ;  a  happy  mai'riage 
had  prepared  for  her  a  brilliant  future,  and  given 
her  the  most  delightful  residence  in  th-at  city  of 
refuge  for  the  unfortunate,  beautiful  Florence  , 
it  had  blessed  her  with  wealth,  honor,  love.  But, 
alas  !  ere  the  bridal  garland  had  yet  lost  its  fresh- 
ness or  its  fragrance,  ere  the  last  echoes  of  the 
marriage  hymn  had  yet  ceased,  commenced  the 
solemn  requiem  for  the  loved,  the  lost,  the  dead  ! 
I  remained  an  hour  in  this  abode  of  sorrow, 
during  all  which  time  but  few  words  were  inter- 
changed. Although  exerting  myself  to  restrain 
a  childish  curiosity,  I  could  not  refrain  from  an 
occasional  glance  at  the  objects  around  me.  The 
saloon  was  spacious,  splendidly  gilded,  and  luxu- 
riously furnished.  In  one  of  those  moments 
when  the  Princess  Charlotte  had  made  a  suc- 
cessful efibrt  to  combat  busy  memory,  that  she 


99  THE    COUNTESS   SURVILLIERS. 

might  speak  on  otiicr  subjects  tlian  that  which 
incessantly  occupied  her  heart,  she  observed  to 
me,  that  this  palace  had  formerly  belonged  to 
tbe  Prince  DemidofT,  of  whom  her  family  had 
purchased  it.  This  noble  building,  now  so  silent 
and  solitary,  of  which  two  sorrowing  women  were 
tlie  sole  inhabitants,  had,  then,  witnessed  all  those 
brilliant  festivals  given  by  the  rich  Muscovite  tc 
the  descendants  of  the  Guelfs  and  the  Ghibe- 
lines.  How  instructive,  how  full  of  change,  is 
the  history  of  a  palace  !  As  joy  dies  away  in 
the  hearts  of  men,  so  also  expire  the  flames  of 
the  lustres,  and  the  mournful  darkness  of  the 
saloon  affords  its  silent  sympathy  to  suffering  hu- 
manity. 

The  amiable  princess  seemed  desirous  of  mak- 
ing compensation  for  the  sad  constraint  which 
circumstances  had  imposed  on  us  all.  Twice, 
towards  the  end  of  our  visit,  were  her  pale 
features  lighted  up  with  a  faint,  sweet  smile. 
She  showed  to  us  her  album,  which  contained 
many  beautiful  emanations  from  her  own  mind 
and  heart.  The  lady  who  accompanied  us,  re- 
quested permission  to  trauKcribe  the  following 
stanzas  which  they  showed  us,  and  which  are 
upon  the  willow  standing  by  the  grave  of  Napo 
Icon,  at  St.  Helena  : 


n 


||»   0OUNTE8S   Wt' I!  V  ii.i.r  Kits  ii 

"  rout   liiL  nn'iMiicr  .-miia  la  tents 
Bu  vic^ille  gloirt)  tie  qitinxa  una, 
II  n'u  qu'ua  urbre  Holitairei, 
Le  dt^niicr  do  sea  oourtiHitiia ; 
l)i^  titiit  tin  {riiirluiitlea  do  late 
Qii'uii    itliiiulti   tir-ann   ]iiiiir  an   tAte, 
ilutf  lui  rtiate-t-il  aujourd'tiul  / 
Vn  aaule  aur  Itt  roclie  ditrt*, 

Hflll    Mli:    tl'Uilllpllitl    do    vcrdlll'd 
Quo    \f.   (oiiia   nit   liiiuatS   (luur   lui  I 

"  Viaititiit  act  IVuidti  dciiieure, 
Noa  niniiiia,  lo  front  dtcouvert, 
I)ii  Htiulo  ^H-liovolo  (|ui  idoiird 
Be  imrtn^rent  uii  raiiienu  vert ; 
Kt,  |dua  coiifiuna  aiix  6tollea, 
A  itt  lii'iao  ila  otivi'i-tit  letii'd  voilai, 
hika  do  rovoir  louia  liotiux  (-liiimta  ; 
Car  on  dit  que  ce  aaint  fouillnge 
Doiiitn  au  navira  uii  duitx  luniiillngt) 
Kt  porte  bonliour  \  sea  inftta  !  " 

It  was  not  without  humid  eyes  that  we  took  our 
louve.  No  word  was  Hpoken  in  the  eurriago  ;  nnd 
the  whole  city  seemed  to  havt)  caught  a  sliado  of 
our  sadiifsn.  The  Arno  murmuringly  rippled  by 
llu!  foundations  of  tlio  old  ( ihihctino  mansions 
upon  its  baidcH  -,  iho  rising  moon  shed  its  pale 
li^'lit  upon  tho  lypress  wooil  whicli  frowns  above 
ibo  Villa  Stro/7.i  ;  and  the  illuiuinated  clock  upor 
Jiu  dark  tower  of   the  old    palace    indicated   the 


24  "m?-    COUNTESS    SURVILLIEKS. 

hour  of  eleven,  wlien,  amid  congenial   stillness 
and  gloom,  wc  reached  our  hotels. 

Note  Since  the  above  sketch  was  handed  to  the  Editor  ()f 
the  Token,  he  has  noticed  the  following  account  of  the  death 
of  the  Princess  Charlotte. 

Extract  of  a  Letter  from  Florence,  datea  tJie  4lh  of  3Iarch^ 

1839. 

"  Princess  Charlotte,  daughter  of  the  King  Joseph  Napoleon, 
died  at  Sirzana,  on  her  way  from  Florence  to  Genoa  for  the 
benefit  of  her  health.  Her  decease  has  produced  great  regret 
where  she  was  known,  from  her  taste  for  the  arts,  for  which  she 
possessed  remaikable  talents.  Since  her  youth,  she  had  been 
in  exile  wiih  her  family,  but  still  entertained  an  enthusiastic 
affection  for  France.  She  resided  wiih  the  Queen  Julia,  her 
mother,  in  Frankfort  and  Brussels,  till  the  death  of  Napo- 
leon at  St.  Helena.  She  traversed  the  Atlantic  to  offer  con- 
Bolation  to  her  father,  then  in  the  United  States,  the  ferble 
state  of  her  mother's  health  having  prevented  her  from 
going.  Princess  Charlotte  returned  to  Europe  in  1822,  and 
ehe  was  soon  united  to  a  prince  worthy  of  her.  Prince  Napo- 
leon. His  premature  death  had  deeply  affected  her.  and  in 
her  turn  she  has  been  suddenly  taken  away  by  the  breaking  of 
>  blood  fQBScl." 


TO  M.  A. 

As  one  that  ga^ietli  on  a  star, 
lu  adoration  from  alar, 
I  gaze  on  thee,  as  pure  and  fair, — 
And  yet,  alas,  as  cold  thine  air  I 

Still,  1  hare  fondly,  madly  dwelt 

On  one  bright  orb,  till  reason  knelt 

In  ■vforship  at  so  loved  a  shrine, 

And,  oh,  how  deeply  wished  't  wore  min«k 

And  when  I  saw  its  equal  rays 
Bestowed  on  all  who  chanced  to  gaze, 
Spite  of  its  high  and  haughty  birth, 
I  would  have  plucked  it  down  to  earth. 

Lady,  forgive !  that  star  is  bright. 
No  thought  of  mine  can  dim  its  light ; 
Proudly  it  sweeps  the  azure  sky, 
And  I  am  left  alone  to  sigh. 


SONNET:    TO   LOUISE, 
DAUGHTER  OF  A  FREI^^CII   REFUGEE. 

BY   MRS.    HOFLANJ). 

Fair,  trembling  girl,  metliinks  1  ne'er  beheld 

So  sweet  a  sufierer  in  Love's  hour  of  woe  ; 
Not  one,  tlie  ruthlesa  deity  compelled 

To  crush  a  father'a  heart  by  such  strange  blow. 
Though  iiappy  in  tl;y  choice.  —  uniiappy  thou 

In  tiie  stern  secret  he  hath  bade  thee  keep. 
Sinless,  yet  joyless,  thou  canst  not  bestow 

One  synip:ithetic  smile,  but  turn'st  to  weep 
From  hun  who  yearns  to  o!ess  thee,  —  him  whose  brow 

The  coronet  of  rank  restored  shall  grace,  — 
liut  Hnds  not  there  one  jewel  that  can  glow 

Like  the  bright  beauty  of  his  child's  dear  face,  — 
.n  days  of  confidence.     Oh  I  ne'er  forget 

The  daughter's  deep,  unutterable  di'bt. 


THE  VELVET  HAT. 

BY   MRS.   SEE  A   SMITH. 

I  THINK  I  see  tliee,  gentle  one, 

When  first  that  "  velvet  hat," 
Before  the  looking-glass  put  on, 

Upon  thy  dark  curls  sat ; — 
I  see  the  look  of  youthful  pride, 
"Which  thou  didst  seek  in  vain  to  hide,- 
The  triumph  lingering  in  thine  eye. 
The  conscious  blush,  that  flitted  by. 

I  see  thee  turn  aside  thine  head, 

Adjust  the  glossy  curl, — 
And  backward  go  with  tiptoe  tread, 

And  pretty,  girlish  whirl, 
Then  forward  step  for  one  last  view  ;— 
The  "  velvet  hat "  was  then  quite  new. 
And  thou  wouldst  know  if  it  would  bo 
Becoming  to  thy  curls  and  thee. 

Yes,  all  was  right, — I  see  it  now, 

By  that  complacent  smile. 
The  calmness  of  the  placid  brow. 

The  dash  of  maiden  wile. 
That  seems  to  dimple  round  the  eyo 
And  lurk  about  the  corners  sly 
Of  that  sweet,  budding  lip  of  thine, 
Which  I  could  almost  press  to  mine. 


28  THE   VELVET    tiki.  | 

Tlie  "  velvet  hat,"  it  was,  sweet  ;  irl, 

The  very  tiling  for  thee, — 
So  causing  brow  and  sunny  curl 

In  softened  light  to  be. 
O  '  mny  no  shadow  ever  rest 
More  coldly  on  thy  youtnful  breast, 
Than  this,  that  tails  upon  ihy  orow 
But  making  it  more  lovely  now. 


EARLY  FLOWEES. 


BY   MK9.    "WmTilAN 


"Vergnugen  sitzt  in  Blumen-kelchen,  und  kommt  alle  Jabr 
elnmal  ab  Geruch  heraus." — Jiahel. 

"  Pleasure  sits  in  the  flower-cnps,  and  breathes  itself  out  onc« 
every  year  in  fragrance." 

As  the  fabled  stone  into  music  woke, 
When  the  morning  sun  o'er  the  marble  broke. 
So  wakes  the  heart  from  its  stern  repose. 
As  o'er  brow  and  bosom  the  spring-wind  blows; 
So  it  stirs  and  trembles,  as  each  low  sigh 
Of  the  breezy  south  comes  murmuring  by ; — 

Murmuring  by  like  a  voice  of  love, 
"Wooing  us  forth  amid  flowers  to  rove  ; 
Breathing  of  forest-paths  damp  with  dew. 
Which  the  milk-white  buds  of  the  strawberry  strew ; 
And  of  banks  that  slope  to  the  southern  sky. 
Where  lanscuid  violets  love  to  lie. 


Its  wings  are  heavy  with  rich  perfume. 
Won  from  the  hyacinth's  purple  bloom  ; 
It  has  rifled  the  buds  from  the  blossoming  tree, 
And  robbed  of  his  banquet  the  roving  bee, 


30  EAKLY    FLOWERS 

Their  white  peta.s  far  o'er  the  fields  :\rp  bloup. 
Like  pearls  on  a  mantle  of  emerald  sovn 
No  foliage  droops  o'er  the  wood-path  now, 
Flintrinn'  rich  curtains  from  bou<jh  to  bougli, 

SO  OS' 

But  a  trembling  shadow  of  silvery  green 

Falls  through  the  young  leaf's  tender  screen 

Like  the  hue  that  borders  the  snow-arop's  b?!! 

Or  lines  the  lid  of  an  eastern  shell ; 

There  the  gold-cup  may  burnish  her  crown  a'',  taj 

As  she  basks  in  t!ic  sunshine  beside  the  way, 

The  anemone  open  her  sleepy  eye, 

And  look  at  the  clouds  as  they  wander  by, 

Or  hi  le    neath  the  shade  of  a  drooping  fern, 

To  gather  the  dew  in  her  waxen  urn. 

Already  the  green-budding  birchen  spray 
Catches  the  light  in  its  quivering  plaj'. 
And  the  aspen  thrills  to  a  low,  sweet  tona, 
Breathed  for  her  listening  ear  alone. 
Through  the  tangled  coppice  the  dwarf-oak  •vcave* 
Its  fringe-like  blossoms  and  crimson  leaves, 
And  the  velvet  buds  of  the  willow  unfold 
Into  downy  feathers  bedropt  with  gold, 
While,  thick  as  the  stars  of  the  midnight  sky, 
n  the  dark,  wet  meadows  the  cowslips  lie. 

Now  on  rocky  ledges  the  columbines  grow, 
With  their  heavy  honey-cups  bending  low, 
As  a  heart,  which  vugue,  sweet  tiioughts  rppresa, 
Droops    neath  its  burden  of  happiness. 
There  the  waters  drip  from  their  mossy  wells. 
With  n  sound  like  the  tinkling  of  silver  bells 


EARLY    FLOWERS.  31 

Or  fall,  with  a  mello-w  and  flute-like  flow, 
Through  the  channelled  clefts  of  the  rock  below. 

Ay,  music  gushes  in  every  tone. 
And  jerfume  on  every  bi-eeze  is  blown! 
On  the  flashing  fount  and  the  blossoming  bough. 
The  light  of  gladness  and  beauty  glow; 
While  all  sweet  sounds  through  the  air  that  float, 
The  hum  of  the  bee  and  the  wild-bird's  note, 
The  fl  ash  on  the  wind-flower's  delicate  cheek. 
The  perfume  that  steals  from  the  violet's  beak. 
Confess  a  presence  of  joy  and  love, 
That  bends  o'er  earth  like  a  brooding  dove. 

The  flower  in  fragrance,  the  bird  in  song, 
The  glittering  wave  as  it  glides  along, 
All  bieathe  the  incense  of  boundless  bliss, 
The  eloquent  music  of  happiness  1  ' 

Aitd  the  soul,  as  it  ^eds  o'er  the  sunbright  hour 
The  priceless  wealth  of  its  princely  dower, 
Linked  to  all  nature  by  chords  of  love, 
Lifted  by  faith  to  pure  worlds  above, 
la  vain  would  it  utter  the  full,  free  tide 
Of  gr.'.teful  thoughts  through  the  heart  that  glide. 
Fervid  and  deep  as  the  hue  that  glows 
In  the  burning  core  of  the  crimson  rose. 

Yet  sad  would  the  heart  of  the  dreamer  be. 
And  this  world  a  withering  mockery; 
Its  glory,  a  meteor  that  sweeps  the  sky, 
A  blossom,  that  floats  on  the  storm-wind  by; 


32  EAULr   FLOWEKM. 

If,  as  it  passes  on  arrowy  "w'ing, 

It  left  not  a  token  of  endless  spring, 

If  it  nurtured  no  rich-fruited  flower  of  love, 

To  bloom  for  yon  far  land  of  beauty  above. 


A  LOVE    MATCH. 


BT   THU   AUTHOR   OF    "  WEALTH    A>I     FASHIOH  " 


It  is  surprising  how  many  diirerent  stages 
people  may  pasfi  through  in  tlie  course  of  their 
lives,  and  yet  preserve  their  identity.  The  Lm- 
tons  were  always  spok-cn  of  as  very  worthy  peo- 
ple. They  were  industrious  and  economical,  and 
then  they  were  called  wealthy  people.  They 
purchased  an  elegant  house,  and  furnished  it  with 
French  furniture,  and  mirrors  to  the  floor  ;  then 
they  were  called  fashionable  people.  At  length 
they  gave  dinners  and  balls,  and  brought  out 
their  only  child,  who  v/as  a  belle  and  a  beauty, 
and  then  they  were  called  stylish  people  This 
is    the   very   acme  of  praise   in    the   aristocratic 

vocabulary. 

"The  force  of  nature  could  no  further  go;" 

aiKi  after  the  Lintons  became  wealthy,  fashiona- 
dIc,  and  stylish,  they  stood  still. 

Was  it  not  a  great  mistake,  in  abolishing  titles 
in  this  country,  that  we  did  not  abolish  the  de- 
sire for  them  i'   Now,  with  a  certain  class,  nothing 
3 


34  A    LOVE    MATCH- 

is  left  to  distiijgxush  them  but  what  can  be  pro- 
cured by  vulgar  coin,  and  all  the  wealth  in  the 
country  cannot  turn  one  American  citizen  into 
a  duke,  or  even  a  three-tailed  bashaw.  Emma 
Linton,  the  heroine  of  our  tale  and  the  only  child, 
though  ambitious,  possessed  no  vulgar  ambition. 
Many  a  youth  sued  for  her  fair  hand.  She  smil- 
ed upon  them,  talked  with  them,  waltzed  with 
them,  and  accepted  their  bouquets ;  but  her  heart 
remained  untouched.  She  had  her  secret  aspira- 
tions, and  determined  nevCr  to  marry  unless  she 
could  see  them  accomplished.  It  was  not  wealth 
she  sighed  for,  nor  such  rank  as  our  republican 
country  affords,  but  for  what  she  considcrcdita 
true  nobility,  talent. 

There  were  many  young  lawyers,  physicians, 
and  divines,  who  gave  fair  promise  of  future  em- 
inence in  their  respective  professions;  but  thia 
was  not  Emma's  idea  of  talent.  Talent  was  a 
magic  word,  that  embraced  every  thing.  The  man 
who  realized  \icvheau  ideal,  was  to  charm  by  his 
eloquence,  dazzle  by  his  wit,  convince  by  his  ar- 
guments, and  conquer  by  his  energy.  To  find 
him  was  not  easy,  yet  it  had  been  her  dream  for 
years.  She  had  heard  of  such,  and  read  of  such  , 
but  they  were  like  wandering  comets,  that  never 
crossed  her  path. 


A    LOVE    MATCH.  35 

It  is  extremely  difficult  to  know  where  to^eek 
for  our  distinguished  men.  Every  party  has  its 
demigods,  and  poor  Emma  was  kept  in  a  state  of 
feverish  vicissitude.  One  position,  however,  she 
resolutely  adopted,  that  they  were  only  to  be  found 
in  public  life ;  and  she  therefore  sought  her  fu- 
ture husband  in  all  the  newspapers.  She  read  whig 
speeches  and  democratic  speeches,  tariff  speeches 
and  anti-tariff.  She  turned  from  the  frozen  zone 
of  the  north  to  the  fiery  tropics  of  the  south. 
She  wandered  from  the  far  east  to  the  still 
farther  west,  and  her  heart  found  no  resting- 
place. 

At  length,  however,  one  star  seemed  to  rise 
above  its  twinkling  associates.  All  the  world 
began  to  talk  of  Mr.  Merville.  "  When  he  spoke 
in  pufc4ic,"  the  newspapers  said,  "  every  tye  was 
fixed  upon  him,  and  every  tongue  was  mute  " 
All  parties  acknowledged  his  talents ;  but  only 
the  party  to  which  he  belonged,  gave  him  credit 
for  virtue  and  principle. 

Mr.  Linton  happened  to  be  on  an  excursion  to 
Washington  when  Mr.  Merville's  fame  became  so 
trarscendent,  and  therefore  had  the  good  fortune 
to  hear  him  make  a  speech  six  hours  long,  dur- 
ing which  it  seemed  doubtful  whether  he  onco 
stopped  to  breathe.      All  thrs    Emma   learned 


36  A    LOVE    MATCH. 

thrQUgh  the  newspapers,  and  waited  with  the  ut 
most  impatience  for  her  father's  return.  She 
had  ascertained  that  Merville  was  a  bachelor, 
and,  if  disengaged,  he  was  the  very  hero  of  her 
aspirations.  All  in  time  Mr.  Linton  arrived, 
and  Emma  inquired,  with  no  small  degree  of  agi- 
tation, what  he  thought  of  the  distinguished  Sen- 
ator. 

With  surprise  she  learned  that  he  was  an  early 
friend  of  her  father's.  They  had  met,  with  a 
glow  of  feeling  that  carried  them  back  to  youth, 
and  in  the  fulness  of  communication  Mr.  Linton 
expressed  his  astonishment  that  Merville  had 
never  married. 

"  It  would  be  surprising,"  replied  his  compan- 
ion, "  if  mine  had  not  been  an  occupied  life ;  but 
I  begin  to  grow  weary  of  the  strife  of  politics, 
and  tired  of  gazirg  year  after  year  on  the  Lard, 
unyielding  visages  of  my  constituents.  I  want 
different  specimens  of  creation ;  its  corals,  ita 
pearls,  and  its  roses; — the  truth  is,  Linton,!  am 
determined  to  marry,  and  live  for  myself." 

"  I  wish,"  replied  his  friend,  "  you  could  take 
ome  fifteen  or  twenty  years  from  your  age ;  and 
then,  as  far  as  my  influence  and  consent  could 
insure    success,  you  might  become  my  Bou-iu 
law." 


A    I.OVE    MATCH.  37 

"  And  -why  not  now  ?  "  paid  Mcrville  eagerly 
"  do  yon  see  iu  me   any   of  the  imbecility  of 
age  ?     Is  my  arm    feeble    to  protect  Biy  wife 
my  lieart  cold  in  its  pulsations?  "Where  is  th 
man,  on  wbom  you  could  bestow  your  daughter 
who  would  insure  her  less  chance  of  vicissitude 
and   change  ?     You  may  obtain  for  her   youth, 
but  you  must  take  with  it  the  uncertainty   of 
worldly  succci-s,  of  moral  character,  and  of  dis- 
positiou.     Perhaps  30U  may  see  her  breasting 
the  storms  of  life  with  a  man  who  h-as  nothing 
hut  his  youth  to  recommend  him,  an  advantage 
cl'  all  others  the  most  perilous   and  the   most 
fleeting." 

As  he  spoke,  his  eye  sparkled  with  the  vivaci- 
ty of  youth,  and  certainly  at  that  r;ic  i-'nt  there 
w:is  little  to  i.i  fk  ■  :if^  a  ci:mui-  .i  n  of  vears. 
His  hair  was  slightW  ble-'^hed,  bn  the  manly 
dignity  of  his  form  WaS  still  unimpaired.  Mr. 
Linton  became  a  proselyte  to  the  eloquence  of 
his  friend,  and  consented  thfit  he  should  try  hia 
influence  with  the  young  beauty.  His  surprise 
was  great  when  he  returned  home,  to  find  her 
mind  already  enga.T-?'!  upon  the  subject;  and, 
when  he  opened  thf  negotiation,  she  lent  a  ready 
aiif"  willing  ear. 

Mr.   Linton  communicated  to  his  friend  th«? 


88  A    LOVE   MATCH. 

favorable  intcliigence,  rdth  the  permission  to 
hasten  on  and  m.^V-  ais  own  inpreisions.  Jlr. 
Merville  was  too  ,'i;.oortarit  a  ^an  ecsilj  to  get 
leave  of  absence.  Kis  name  was  on  various 
committees;  and  petitions,  signed  by  mar.j  n 
Harriet,  Mary,  Eliza,  &5  .  -v^re  daily  "oming  'n^ 
which  he  felt  bound  to  dom-nce  or  tn  support. 
At  such  a  juncture,  he  joulu  on'y  ^rite  at  first 
to  the  father.  By  d'^p^'^'^s  ?  correspondence  was 
commenced  betv.'ccii  the  p^rtios.  Ilad  aught  been 
wantiug  to  contirm  the  fail  Emma  in  her  favor 
able  impressions,  these  xctters  would  have  been 
sufficient.  The  flame  was  kindled  and  burned 
brightly.  Every  newspaper  that  contained  his 
name  w^as  preserved.  "  Mr.  Merville  made  a 
motion,"  "  Mr.  Merville  sat  down,"  "  Mr.  Mer- 
ville rose,"  were  all  words  of  magic  import; 
and  now  and  then  a  speech  of  four  columns  in 
length,  to  be  continued  in  the  next,  and  con- 
cluded in  the  one  after,  by  Mr.  Merville,  gave 
her  employment  till  the  next  appeared.  Emma 
QO  longer  troubled  herself  to  keep  up  appcar- 
Bnces.  Instead  of  wearing  the  numerous  bou 
quets  that  were  laid  at  her  shrine,  and  which 
often  made  her  resemble  "  Biruam  wood  com- 
ing to  Dunsinane,"  she  left  them  to  fade  and 
die    on    her    dressiug-table.       The  consequence 


A    LOVE    MAI  C  H  39 

was  that  tho  passion  of  the  innamoratos  faded 
and  died  with  them,  and  Emma  Linton  ceased 
to  be  a  belle.  At  length,  however,  the  long  ses- 
sion was  over,  and  Merville,  crov/ned  witn  hon- 
ors, and  his  party  triumphant,  was  speeched,  and 
feasted,  through  all  the  principal  cities  and  towns, 

till  he  arrived  at  ,  too  late  at  night  to  visit 

the  lady  of  his  love.  The  first  notice  she  re- 
ceived of  his  vicinity,  was  through  the  newspa- 
pers, those  important  agents  in  the  present  love 
affair.  It  was  announced  in  capital  letters,  that 
Mr.  Merville  the  great  Senator,  the  great  Speak- 
er, the  great  Statesman  had  arrived,  and  that  ho 
held  already  received  an  invitation  to  a  public 
dinner,  which  he  had  graciously  accepted.  Now 
did  Emma's  heart  fiutttr,  her  cheeks  glow,  as 
she  thought,  "  This  man  whom  all  the  world  de- 
lights to  honor  lo  engrossed  solely  by  me."  She 
walked  before  her  Psyche  glass,  scanned  her 
slight  and  youthful  figure,  and  feU  a  degree  of 
wonder  that  any  thing  so  dlmmutive  could  set 
the  world  in  motion. 

At  an  early  hour  she  was  prepared  to  receive 
the  Senator.  But  he  was  detained  by  calls,  and 
shaking  of  hands,  and  accepting  the  homage  of 
half  the  city. 

At  length,  hov/ever,  the  august  moment  arriv" 


40  A    LOVE   MATCH. 

and  Mr.  Merville  was  introduced  to  tte  elegant 
and  classic  apartment  of  the  young  lady.     Em- 
ma was  an  only  daughter,  and  had  the  privileges 
of  one.     Though  Mr.  Linton  had  no  great  taste 
for  pictures  or  statues,  Emma  had  cultivated  an 
ardent  love  of  the  fine  arts.     She  had  collected 
around  her  specimens  of  Italian  sculpture;  and 
a  Cupid,  beautiful  as  day,  surmounl^ed  the  pillar 
which  rose  in  the  centre  of  the  crimson  divan, 
against   which    she  reclined.       On    either    side 
were  placed   upon  pedestals  an   Apollo   and   a 
flyicg    Mercury.     The  walls   were    ornamented 
with  the  finest  copies  of  Raphaels  Madonnas, 
the  St.  John  of  Domiuichino,  the  Magdalen  of 
Guido.     The  furniture  was  in  the  simplest  stylo 
of  Grecian  beauty;  tabourets   and  divans,  and 
the  slight  modern  cane  chair,  that  looks  as  if  it 
was  hardly  made  to  support  one  of  mortal  mould, 
had  excluded  the  French  comfortable   hergcre 
and  fauteuil.     This  apartment,  so  beautifully  ar- 
ranged,  was  exclusively  her  own,  and  was  re- 
flected on  every  side  by  superb  mirrors,  which 
produced  the  effect  of  a  suite  of  rooms.     It  was 
an  agitating  moment   to   its  youthful   mistress 
when    the    great   Merville  entered, — great,  we 
regret  to  say,  in  more  senses  than  one.     "  The 
waving  ilae   of  beauty "   has   long   been  cele* 


A.    LOVE    MATCH.  41 

brated,   but   it   seems   difficult   to  defiue  when 
brought  into  real  life.     Fanny  Kemble  we  think 
illustrated  it,  who  never  stood  erect,  but  benTi 
like  a  graceful  sapling  with  every  emotion  of 
her  mind.     If  it  means  merely  a  curve,  Mer- 
ville  illustrated  it,  for  time  often  gives  a  sur- 
prising  rotundity   to   the  figure.     Emma   had 
been  too  much  engrossed  in  her  worship  of  tat- 
ent  to  ask  a  description  of   the  temple  which 
enshrined  it,  or  she  would  have  learned  that  he 
was  what  we  Yankees  call  a  portly  man,  with  a 
comfortable  share  of  the  bones  and  sinews  of  old 
Kentucky. 

Emma  had  placed  one  of  the  light  cane  chairs 
near  the  divan,  on  which  she  meant  to  give  audi- 
ence ;  thinking  it  would  be  a  convenient  seat  for 
her  lover.  Even  the  elephant  is  guided  by  in- 
stinct or  reason,  and  refuses  to  cross  a  bridge 
that  may  totter  and  sink  under  him ;  how  much 
more  a  man  of  talents  wonld  avoid  such  a  snare. 
Merville  had  real  good  sense,  and  none  of  the 
affectation  that  belongs  to  a  little  mind.  Ho 
paid  his  respects  to  Emma  in  a  manly  and  grace 
ful  manner,  and,  as  he  considered  the  cane  chair 
wholly  out  of  the  question,  he  took  a  seat  on 
the  small  circular  divan  upon  which  she  was  sit- 
ting.    This  was  unfavorable  for  first  impressions, 


42  A    LOVE   MATCH. 

it  brought  tbcm  nearly  back  to  back,  reflected 
from  the  magnificent  mirrors,  and  the  light  and 
graceful  Cupid  with  his  bow  bent,  rising  above 
them,  and  ready  to  take  aini.  It  however  wa* 
only  a  first  meeting,  and  it  was  of  short  contin 
nance,  for  Merville  was  a  public  man  and  had 
many  engagements  on  hand.  Perhaps  he  was 
too  wise  to  make  a  long  visit.  His  allusions 
were  tender  and  respectful,  as  to  the  object  for 
which  he  came,  and  yet  not  so  pointed  as  to  alarm 
the  fair  one.  She  felt  that  he  still  considered 
her  the  mistress  of  her  own  destiny.  When  he 
took  leave,  she  watched  his  retreating  form  in  the 
mirror  opposite, and  as  the  door  closed  her  beau- 
tiful head  drooped,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

At  that  critical  moment  the  door  was  again 
gently  opened,  and  Merville  appeared ;  he  had 
left  one  of  his  gloves,  and  returned  for  it.  What 
a  spectacle  for  a  lover, — his  fair  mistress,  after 
the  first  triumph  of  a  meeting,  half  suffocated 
by  sobs,  and  bathed  in  tears  ! 

His  quick  and  comprehensive  mind  at  once 
caught  the  meaning  of  her  distress,  and  he 
determined  to  let  his  engagements  wait  and  set 
her  heart  at  rest. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Linton,"  said  he  (he  had  been 
u.sed  to  addressing  her  thus  in  his  letters),  ''  why 


A    LOVE    MATC  H  43 

this  ajritation,  this  causeless  distress  ?    Vou  liave 
incurred  no  responsibility,  you  are  entirelv  your 
own  mistress  ;  whatever  encouragement  or  hop(y 
I  may  have   cherished,  has  been   the  result  of 
my  own  sanguine  wishes.     This  excursion,  with 
out  so  powerful  a  motive,  would  have  been  desir 
able  to  me.     Much  as  I  had  heard  of  your  beau 
ty  and  sweetness,  and  truly  as  I  read  your  mind 
in   tlie   letters  I  have    received,  I   do    not   hesi- 
tate to  say,  that  the  reality  far  transcends  my 
expectations.     I  feel  that  it  was  presumption  in 
me  to  expect  to  win  youth  and  beauty.     Recover 
your  cheerfulness  and  put  me  wholly  out  of  the 
question  ;    consider   me    only  as    the    friend   of 
your  father." 

The  soothing  tones  of  his  voice,  his  manner 
so  tender  and  respectful,  at  once  produced  the 
desired  effect ;  her  tears  ceased,  and  by  degrees 
furtive  smiles  dimpled  her  cheeks.  Their  con- 
versation grew  more  interesting,  yet  that  odious 
divan  !  There  was  but  one  way  of  settling  it ; 
Em'  na  arose  and  seated  her  slio-ht  fisjure  in  the 
plight  chair,  and  then  they  could  talk  face  to 
face.  Merville  gained  wonderfully  by  this  ar- 
rangement. There  is  no  old  age  to  intellect, — 
it  diffuses  over  the  countenance  the  animation 
and   brightness  of   youth.      Emma  saw  all   her 


44  LOVE  MATCH. 

dreams  realized.  Whether  the  little  Cupid  an 
tually  drew  his  bow  or  not,  it  is  difficult  to  sav 
but,  before  they  parted,  another  appaintnienl  wag 
made  for  the  evening,  and,  when  hs  a  second 
time  disappeared,  the  mirror  reflected  to  her  eye 
'  a  port  like  Jove."  I\Ir.  Merville  had  no  liil^o 
to  lose,  and  their  engagement  was  soon  settled 
and  announced.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  Emma 
was  deeply  in  love;  and  we  verily  bel.eve,  if  she 
had  heard  all  the  spiteful  things  said  about  their 
difierence  of  age,  it  would  not  have  given  her 
a  moment's  uneasiness.  Some  tried  to  make  it 
out  a  mercenary  match  on  her  side  ;  but,  as  she 
had  rather  more  wealth  in  expectation,  ilian 
Mr.  Merville  in  possession  this  did  not  go  well. 
Tlvey  ne.xt  endeavoured  to  proves  that  it  was  for 
an  estallishment  she  was  forming  t-lie  connexion, 
to  be  mistress  of  a  bouse  and  of  a  carriage  ; 
but  all  this  she  enjoyed  under  her  parent's  toof. 
Finally,  they  contented  themselves  by  saying, 
*'  she  had  thrown  herself  away ; "  a  conclusion 
tliat  settles  all  diflicultics,  and  is  a  wonderful 
cordial  to  the  ill-natured. 

In  a  few  weeks  Mr.  Merville   led   his  young 
brule  to  the  altar.     lie  was  tlve  happiest  ot  hus- 
bunds,  Emma   the  happiest  of  wives,  and   Mr 
Linton  the  happiest  of  fathers  ;    but  there  wa« 


/iLOVE    WATCH.  45 

one  quiet,  anobtrusive  being,  that  we  cunnot  rank 
among  the  happy,  and  this  was  Mrs.  Linton,  the 
tender  mother  of  Em.ma.  She  was  neither  tal- 
ented, nor  gifted,  but  her  heart  was  true  to  na- 
ture ;  she  had  from  the  first  been  averse  to  the 
inaitch.  and  ventured  to  remonstrate  against  it 
Emma  listened  respectfully  to  her  objections 
Ihey  were  entirely  based  upon  the  difference  of 
years.  *'  How  is  it  possible,"  said  she,  "  that  the 
young  and  the  old  can  assimilate  ?  Your  hus- 
band will  soon  want  quiet,  and  retirement,  while 
you  are  yet  sighing  for  gayety  and  amusement." 
"  Never,  mother,"  said  Emma,  and  she  fully 
believed  what  she  said.  "  His  pursuits  will  al- 
ways be  mine  ;  there  is  a  perfect  assimilation 
of  mind,  and  time  has  no  power  over  intellect." 
"  And  v^l,"  said  Mrs.  Linton,  "  I  have  known 
such  disproportioned  matches  end  unhappily,  and 
what  you  cull  intellect  crumble  away  before 
old  age."  '  Then  it  ceases  to  be  intellect," 
said  Emma,  triumphantly,  "  and  cannot  apply 
to  our  subjec'.  We  are  all  liable  to  the  casual- 
ties of  life ;  1  too  may  become  an  invalid,  but  v.'o 
can  only  pro\ide  for  the  present."  Mrs.  Linton 
was  always  silenced  by  Emma's  ready  wit ,  she 
ceased  to  oppose,  and,  when  she  parted  from 
her  beloved  and  only  daughter,  made  every  ef- 
fort to  suppress  her  rising  tears. 


46  A    LOVE    MATCH. 

Emma  rej  aiied  to  the  pleasant  mansion  of 
her  husband,  and  for  three  whole  months  was 
the  happiest  of  human  beings,  tliough  far  away 
from  her  parents  and  early  companions,  and 
comparatively  among  strangers.  The  nitellect 
and  talent,  to  which  she  paid  homage,  were  de- 
votedly hers.  Her  husband  suffered  the  wheels 
of  government  to  re\;tlve  as  they  might ;  it  mat- 
tered little  to  him  which  part  was  up,  or  which 
down.  His  beautiful  bride  absorbed  ad  his 
thoushts.  He  accoi^modated  himself  to  her 
youth,  her  fancies,  and  even  her  whims.  They 
had  promised  a  distinguished  artist  to  sit  foi 
their  pictures,  and  Emma  insisted  that  they 
should  botl)  be  put  on  the  same  canvass.  Mer- 
ville's  good  judgment  led  him  to  oppose  this 
fancy,  but  the  young  wife  would  not  be  contra- 
dicted. Notwithstanding  the  skill  of  the  paint- 
er, the  contrast  of  age  was  strikingly  preserved. 
Emma  was  unpleasantly  affected  by  it,  and  she 
protested  they  were  neither  of  them  likenesses. 

Hitherto  Mr,  Merville's  world  of  politics  had 
gone  smoothly  on  ;  but  who  expects  stobilily  in 
our  new  hemisphere  ?  Electioneering  times  were 
drawing  near,  and  the  hi'.sband  began  to  arouso 
frjm  his  slumber.  His  brow  was  sometinios 
thoughtful,   and   Emma    grew   anxious    lest   ho 


I 


A    L,  U  V  E    M  A  T  C  11  .  1 7 

loved  her  less.  She  had  a  modest  and  painful 
conscio  asness  of  intellectual  inferiority  compared 
with  him,  which  sometimes  disquieted  her.  Her 
husl)and  was  in  the  habit  of  calming  these  so- 
licitudes by  assuring  her  how  much  beyond 
compare  were  her  native  and  intuitive  percep- 
tions, to  any  dull  acquisitions  of  his  own.  Her 
genius  and  taste  were  amply  and  justly  alleged, 
and  always  with  feeling  and  eloquence.  But 
this  could  not  last  in  electioneering  times.  Mer- 
ville  was  a  determined  politician*,  and  whigs  and 
democrats  were  in  motion.  One  evening  the 
netted  wife  actually  found  herself  alone  in  her 
orawing-room.  The  French  clock  struck  nine 
and  he  did  not  arrive  ;  she  tried  to  read,  she 
walked  the  room,  she  rang  the  bell,  she  pcked  the 
fire,  and  whiled  away  another  hour.  At  length 
the  clock  struck  the  deep,  funereal  notes  of  ten. 
At  that  moment  he  entered,  and  found  his  beau 
tiful  Emma  in  tears. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  dearest," 
said  he  tenderly,  "  no  bad  news,  I  hope,  from 
our  dear  father  or  mother  ?  "  It  must  be  con- 
fessed he  had  the  afiectation  of  calling  h's  early 
friends  by  their  parental  titles.  Emma  shook 
her  head.     "  What  then  has  happened  }  " 

"  Where   have   you  been  all  the  evening  ] ' 
said  she,  with  a  rising  sob. 


48  A    LOVE    MATCH. 

"  To  a  caucus,  my  love,"  replied  he. 

"  Promise  me,  then,''  said  she,  throwing  her- 
self into  his  arms,  "  that  you  will  never  go  to 
another.'" 

It  was  easy  for  him  to  restore  Emma's  seren- 
ity for  that  tinie.  But,  alas  !  caucus  after  cau- 
cus followed ;  his  whole  time  became  engrossed. 
He  was  the  leading  man  of  his  party,  and  the 
very  popularity  that  had  won  her  heart,  now 
made  her  wretchedness.  The  chosen  friends  of 
her  husband  were  politicians  and  of  his  own  age. 
He  urged  her  to  invite  friends  to  her  house, 
and  to  visit ;  but  he  was  always  too  much  en- 
gaged to  be  with  her.  At  length,  he  proposed 
her  making  her  parents  a  visit,  and  promised 
to  hasten  to  her  the  first  moment  of  leisure. 
Emma  received  this  proposal  as  a  wish  to  be  re- 
lieved from  the  little  restraint  her  society  im- 
posed upon  him,  and  made  her  preparations  with 
the  air  of  a  martyr.  His  engrossment  did  not 
prevent  his  attending  to  every  proper  arrange- 
ment for  the  journey  of  his  wife.  Her  father 
joyfully  welcomed  her,  talked  of  the  popularity 
and  success  of  her  husband,  of  his  high  stand- 
ing among  his  constituents,  and  congratulated 
her  on  having  chosen  so  wisely.  The  mother's 
oye  Boon  detected  a  cloud  on  the   fair  you 


A    LOVE    MACTH  €9 

brow ;  and,  when  Emma  seated  herself  on  a  low 
cricket  by  her  side,  Mrs.  Linton  did  not  repress 
the  confidence  tliat  ■sAas  trembling  on,  her  lips. 

"C  mother,"  said  she,  "ail  you  predicted 
has  arrived.  I  am  interested  in  nt)lht'";g,  I  en- 
joy nothing,  I  have  no  society,  I  am  alone  in 
the  world  My  husband  has  become  indifferent 
to  me." 

"  You  shock  me,"  said  Mrs.  Linton. 

"  Indeed,  mother,  it  is  too  true  ;  but  litde  more 
than  three  months  after  we  were  married,  his 
alienation  began." 

"  My  dear  child,  Mr.  Blervillb  is  a  man  of 
honor  and  principle  ;  I  fear  your  conduct  has 
been  injudicious." 

"  I  have  been  the  most  devoted  of  wives," 
replied  Emma  ;  "  I  wanted  no  other  society  than 
his.  .  Only  three  months  after  we  were  married, 
he  left  me  fcr " 

"  My  child,"  interrupted  the  mother,  "beware 
of  suspicion,  and  do  not  expose  any  faults  you 
may  have  accidentally  discovered." 

"  Surely  I  may  speak  to  my  own  mother," 
re|ilied  Emma  "Three  months  after  we  wero 
married,  he  left  me  a  whole  evening  entirely 
.'ilone,  and  I  discovered  that  it  was  for  nothing 
but  a  caucus !  " 
4 


0  A    LOVK     MAlCfl. 

"  I  am  rcjoicea,"  said  Mis.  Liintoii,  smiling, 
"  that  it  was  for  nothing  but  thai.  But  now  do 
tell  me,  I'lmnia,  why  you  married  Mr.  Moi'ville?" 

"  "i  ou  know,  mother,  it  was  for  his  talents; 
ihey  first  r.ecured  my  affection." 

"  Then  he  has  lost  his  talents ;  he  is  no  long- 
er an  hi)n'<r  to  his  country  .'  " 

"  Indeed,  you  are  mistaken,"  said  Emma, 
warmly  ;  "  he  is  mure  popular  than  ever." 

"  Then  it  is  you  that  have  changed ;  you  love 
him  no  loiter  for  what  first  won  your  affec- 
tioii.  Had  he  grown  indifferent  to  the  public 
good,  and  passed  liis  time  in  attendance  upon 
you,  you  might  have  justly  complained  that  you 
had  thrown  yo'jrsclf  away  upon  an  imaginary 
greatness." 

Emma  had  good  sense  enough  to  feel  thai 
her  mother's  renicsenlations  were  just,  and  she 
only  added,  "  \\'ell,  great  talents  arc  for  the 
world,  nor.  for  domestic  life."  Yet  when  her 
friends  'iironged  to  see  lier  and  all  spoke  of 
her  hushrnd,  she  felt  her  funiicr  onthusiasui  re 
vivo.  Week  after  week  she  expected  hiir,  hut 
)ic  (Iciinonent  did  not  arrive  ;  and  at  leii^ih  he 
wrot3  to  her,  'hat  he  was  so  much  oc«  (tpied, 
that  it  vould  be  impossible  for  him  tc  come 
for  lior  till   a  certain   day  of  the   month    whca 


A    LOVE    MATCH  ol 

the  electioneering  would  be  over.  The  letter 
was  written  in  the  hurry  of  occupation,  and  undei 
darker  views  of  his  political  horizon  than  had 
yet  taken  place.  His  wife  imagined  there  was 
a  peculiar  coldness  about  it,  and  she  became 
quite  wretched,  and  announced  her  intention  of 
immediately  returning.  There  is  a  restlessness 
in  unhappiness,  that  will  not  allow  the  subject 
to  wait  patiently  for  the  unravelling  of  events. 
Emma,  notwithstanding  the  remonstrances  of 
her  parents,  who  did  not  understand  the  state 
of  her  feelings,  actually  took  passage  in  the 
stagecoach,  and  arrived  at  her  own  door  just  a* 
night,  after  two  days  of  rapid  journeying.  She 
hastened  to  her  room ;  it  was  cold  and  cheer- 
less. The  sei'vants  were  surprised  to  see  her, 
and  she  almost  regretted  that  she  had  come 
back.  She  would  not  unpack  her  trunks,  but 
seated  herself  on  one  of  them,  thinking  bitter 
thoughts. 

"  How  soon  will  your  master  probably  be  at 
home  .' "  said  she  to  one  of  the  servants. 

"  Early  to-night,  madam,"  said  he  ;  '  he  has 
a  party  of  gentlemen  to  sup." 

"  No  wonder,"  thought  Emma,  clasping  her 
hands  in  a  theatrical  style,  "  that  he  couid  not 
come  for  me,  that  he  docs  not  wish  me  back  J 


52  A    LOVE    MATCH. 

I  will  no  longer  blight  his  prospects ;  I  will  re- 
turn, for  ever,  lo  my  parents."  She  seated  her- 
self at  her  writing-table  to  pen  a  farewell  epis- 
tle to  her  faithless  husband. 

In  the  mean  time,  he  returned  just  in  season 
to  receive  his  friends,  and  did  not  learn  till  the 
late  hour  of  their  departure,  that  she  had  arriv 
ed.  The  servant  then  put  a  letter  into  hi? 
hands,  with  the  information  ;  but  added,  that 
Mrs.  Merville  was  very  much  fatigued,  had  retired 
for  the  night,  and  requested  not  to  be  disturbed 

Mr.  Merville  opened  the  letter  with  real  anxi 
ety,  and  with  the  intention  of  at  least  watchinj 
by  the  bedside  of  the  invalid,  after  he  had  as- 
certained the  cause  of  her  sudden  return,  which 
he  presumed  the  letter  would  explain. 

"To  Mr.  Merville. 
"  Where  the  feeling  of  atTcction  exists  no 
more,  it  ts  useless  to  recriminate  ;  it  neither  suits 
the  dignity  of  your  character,  nor  the  forbear- 
ance of  mine.  I  should  think  it  my  duty  to 
continue  to  endure  indiflbrcncc  and  neglect,  did 
I  not  feel,  that,  in  returning  to  my  father's  roof, 
I  relieve  you  from  a  responsibility,  that,  with 
your  sense  of  justice,  must  weigh  heavily  upon 
your  conscience.     Your  time  will  now  be  wliol 


A    LOVE   MATCH.  53 

ly  your  own;  and  you  may  devote  it  to  tlio 
public  weal,  or  to  such  convivial  pleasures  as 
have  been  the  occupation  of  this  evening.  It 
would  have  been  generous  in  you  not  to  Lavo 
awakened  me  so  early  from  my  dream  of  happi- 
ness, which  for  a  very  few  months  seemed  to  me 
a  blessed  reality  of  all  I  had  ever  hoped  to  en- 
joy. The  painful  lesson  I  have  received  of  my 
own  insignificance,  is  one  that  no  doubt  I  re- 
quired. We  measure  ourselves  by  those  around 
us  and,  brought  up  as  I  have  been,  I  had  but 
little  to  lower  my  self-esteem.  Though  we  part, 
it  is  still  my  earnest  wish  to  bear  your  name. 
It  is  an  honor  to  myself  and  to  my  family. 

"  Emma  Merville." 

Twice  the  husband  read  the  letter  without 
comprehending  the  tenor  of  it.  He  then  direct' 
ed  her  waiting-maid  to  go  to  her  with  a  mes- 
eage ;  but  the  girl  said  the  door  was  locked,  and^ 
as  no  answer  was  returned,  her  lady  must  bo 
asleep.  Upon  further  inquiry,  he  found  she  had 
made  arrangements  to  set  off  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. Again  Merville  read  the  letter,  and  not,  as 
before,  with  a  total  unconsciousness  of  its  mean' 
ing.  His  own  quick  intellect  supplied  the  ex. 
planation  she  had  withheld,  and  a  generous  tear 


5  4  A    LOVE    MATCH. 

Dedrweti  his  eye.  "  She  is  but  a  child,"  thouglil 
he  :  "  a  lamb  thai  I  took  from  the  fold ;  I  plac- 
ed her  in  the  green  pasture  by  the  iio\v  -g  brook, 
but  I  ouglit  to  have  carried  her  in  my  oosom." 
lie  thought  over  her  youth  and  her  beauty,  and 
some  humiliating  contrasts  rose  to  his  mind  as 
to  his  own  claims.  He  felt  that  her  happiness 
ought  to  have  been  his  first  care,  and  wh.^n,  aitti? 
giving  orders  to  his  servant,  he  threw  himself 
upon  his  bed,  it  was  in  the  spirit  of  confession 
and  contrition 

In  the  mean  time,  Emma  passed  a  restless 
night ;  she  sometimes  regretted  that  she  liad  thus 
sealed  her  own  destinv,  but  an  heroic  feelinii, 
that  she  had  relieved  her  husband  from  a  burden, 
supported  her  resolution.  Brfore  the  dawn  of 
day  she  v/as  ready  for  her  departure.  It  was  a 
cold,  ciicerless  morning,  not  a  star  in  the  sky, 
and  still  so  dark  that  not  an  object  could  be 
discerned. 

Poor  Emma  hurried  to  the  room  where  the 
portraits  hung;  it  was  not  to  look  at  her  own, 
radiant  with  happiness,  but  to  tak ;  a  last  view 
of  iicr  husband's,  l)y  a  glimmering  lamp.  She 
wondered  she  had  not  thought  it  a  likeness ; 
there  was  liis  iiigh  broad  forehead,  his  dark 
piercing  eye,  beaming  upon  her  with  o  tender- 


A   LOVE    MATCH.  55 

ncis  that  she  should  never  see  again.  Kei  tears 
fell  in  torrents.  The  servant  came  to  say  that 
the  carriage  was  at  the  door.  Placing  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes  she  left  the  apartment ;  and, 
with  a  feeling  of  despair,  as  if  she  cared  not 
who  witnessed  her  sorrow,  ascended  the  steps 
of  the  carriage,  and  with  a  convulsive  sob,  threw 
herself  back,  —  not  on  the  seat,  but  into  hor 
husband's  arms  !  Fondly  and  tenderly  he  press- 
ed her  to  his  bosom.  "  Could  you  think,  my 
Emma,"  said  he,  "  that  I  would  let  you  a  sec- 
ond time  leave  me  .?  Where  thou  goest,  1  will 
go  too," 

He  had  secretly  countermanded  her  orders 
the  night  before,  and  they  travelled  alone  iu 
the  carriage.  Never  had  the  powers  of  Mel- 
ville's mind  been  so  fully  called  forth  ;  not  as  a 
statesman  or  a  politician,  but  as  a  husband,  lov- 
er, and  friendj  blending  with  all  a  tenderness 
almost  parental.  No  allusion  was  made  to  the 
heroic  epistle,  and  Emma  hoped  he  had  not  re- 
ceived it. 

Two  days  of  travel,  devoted  to  conversat'.jn, 
passed   rapidly  away.     Mervillc   had   the   happy 
art  of  mingling   useful   reflection  with  informa 
tion.      His    mind    was    stored    with    experience, 
and  many  a  little  narrative  called  forth  her  syrn 


55  A    LOVE   MATCH. 

pathy.  As  they  entered  the  city  and  drew  neai 
to  her  father's,  Emma  faintly  -whispered,  "  Am 
I  now  in  a  dream,  or  have  I  awoke  from  a  mis- 
erable one,  to  happineie  ?  " 

"  We  have  both  awoke,"  said  he ;  "  God  grant 
we  may  dream  no  more !  " 

They  were  received  with  great  delight  by  the 
parents,  though  they  were  much  surprised  at 
Emma's  speedy  return.  Merville  had  always 
entertained  an  instinctive  feeling  that  Mrs.  Lin- 
ton was  opposed  to  their  marriage ;  and,  though 
he  had  treated  her  with  Jilial  respect,  there  was 
less  of  warm-hearted  confidence  than  he  had 
evinced  for  her  husband.  He  now,  however, 
took  an  early  opportunity  to  request  a  private 
conference,  and  candidly  communicated  to  her 
all  that  had  passed.  "  Henceforth,"  said  he, 
"  Emma  shall  have  no  reason  to  complain  of 
neglect,  neither  shall  you  find  any  maternal 
anxieties  you  may  have  felt,  arising  from  the 
dificrence  of  our  ages,  fulfilled." 

"  I  have  always  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Linton, 
good-humorcdly,  "  and  still  think,  notwithstand- 
ing Emma's  griefs,  that  hers  bids  fair  to  bo 
among  the  few  happy  matches.  But  my  senti- 
ments are  not  changed ;  and,  if  I  were  ever  to 
write  a  dissertation,  it  would  bo  against  Buch 
alliances." 


A    LOVE    MATCH.  57 

"  It  would  do  no  good,  my  dear  madam,"  re- 
plied he ;  "  as  long  as  there  are  human  motives 
and  sympathies,  such  alliancea  will  take  place. 
Ttather  turn  your  attention  towards  mitigating 
any  evils  that  may  arise  from  them." 

Emma  remained  a  week  at  her  father's,  and 
still  her  husband  said  nothing  of  returning ;  at 
length  she  proposed  it  herself,  and  he  at  once 
consented.  On  their  journey  home  the  reconcil- 
iation was  so  perfect,  that  Emma  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  discuss  her  grievances.  The  shock  she 
received  on  her  arrival,  at  finding  preparations 
for  a  supper  party,  was  alluded  to,  and  she  learn- 
ed with  some  confusion,  that  it  was  the  regular 
meetig  of  a  club  of  Merville's  ancient  com- 
peers:. 

From  this  time  the  aspect  of  things  seemed  to 
have  changed.  Emma  began  to  dahhle  a  little 
in  politics,  and  assisted  in  writing  votes  for  dis- 
tribution. Just  as  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  become  a  real  politician.)  the  election  took 
place,  and  the  opposite  party  obtained  the  vic- 
tory. Perhaps  Merville  bore  this  disappoint- 
ment with  more  philosophy  from  his  new  views 
of  domestic  duty ;  and,  when  a  second  Emma  came 
to  brighten  his  existence  and  awaken  parental 
affection,   nothing  of   political  party   mingled 


58  A    LOVE    MATCH. 

witli  his  love  for  his  country ;  but,  with  his  ear- 
nest desire  for  its  prosperity  and  happiness  was 
united  general  philanthropy  towards  his  fellow- 
citizens.  Emma  realized  more  of  her  dreams 
of  happiness,  than  perhaps  belongs  to  the  lot  of 
most  of  her  sex,  and  always  professed  herself 
a  warm  advocate  for  disparity  of  age  in  a  mat- 
rimonial connection;  not,  however,  exceeding 
thirty-five  years,  exactly  the  difference  between 
her  husband's  and  her  own.  "  Such  matches," 
fshe  said,  "were  the  happiest  in  the  world  when 
they  7fc~e  real  hv9  matches.^ ^ 


ITI  Q    *    #    *    »    # 

THE  GENIUS  OF  PLAINTIVE  MUSIC. 

BY   S,    G.    GOODRICH. 

When  Eol's  finger  strikes  the  string, 
It  yields  a  wild  and  -wailing  tone, — 

But,  like  a  niglit  bird's  whistling  wing, 
It  seems  a  thing  of  sound  alone. 

The  wooing  dove,  the  lapsing  rill. 

The  waves  that  faint  on  ocean's  shore, 

Can  make  the  ear  with  pleasure  thrill, 
But  all  their  art  can  do  no  more. 

The  notes  of  yonder  breathing  flute, 

Soft  as  the  voice  of  one  above, 
Would  leave  the  imanswering  bosom  mute, 

If  fancy  linked  it  not  with  love. 

The  spirit  harp  within  the  breast 

A  spirit's  touch  alone  can  feel. 
Yet  thine  the  power  to  wake  its  rest. 

And  all  its  melody  reveal. 

Yes, — and  thy  minstrel  art  the  while, 
Can  blend  the  tones  of  weal  and  woe. 

So  archly,  that  the  heart  may  smile. 

Though  bright,  unbidden  tear-drops  flow. 


60  THE    GEMUS    OF    PLAINXn'K    MUSIC. 

And  thus  thy  wizzard  skill  can  weave 
Music's  soft  twilight  o'er  the  breast, 

As  niinglinf^  day  and  night,  at  eve, 
Robe  the  far  purpling  hills  for  rest. 

Thy  voice  is  treasured  in  my  soul, 
And  echoing  memory  shall  prolong 

Those  woman  tones,  whose  sweet  control 
Melts  joy  and  sorrow  into  song. 

Th"?  tinted  sea-shell,  borne  away 
Far  from  the  ocean's  pebbly  shore, 

Still  loves  to  hum  the  choral  lay. 

The  whispering  mermaid  taught  of  yora 

The  hollow  cave,  that  once  hath  known 
Echo's  lone  voice,  can  ne'er  forget, 

But  gives,  tliough  parting  yars  have  flown, 
The  wild  responsive  cadence  yet. 

60  shall  thy  plaintive  melody, 

Undymg,  linger  in  my  heart, 
Till  the  last  sirmg  of  memory. 

By  denlh's  chill  finger  struck,  shall  part 


THE    MANTILLA. 


ST   GRE!(TILL£   MELLEH. 


Shb  gathered  H  about  her,  and  stepped  forth 
la  her  ricli  robe,  upon  the  balcony,  — 
And  her  foot  trembled  as  it  touched  the  ilowers 
Tliat  clustered  round  her  sandals.     Mirrors  saw 
No  lovelier  image  on  their  surface  shrined, 
Than  she,  who,  through  the  still,  dark  water,  looked 
Up  to  her  darker  eyes,  and  midnight  hair, 
As  they  spoke  from  that  cold  intensity. 


II. 


There  was  a  weary  lustre  in  that  eye, 
As  though  she  had  been  weeping.     Yet  no  tear 
Told  you  that  killing  tale  of  spirit  scathed, 
Or  heart  played  false  to,  that  white  brows  so  oil 
And  cloudy  eyes  proclaim.     She  knew  not  tliese. 
She  looked  and  listened  from  her  lattice  flowers, 
And  the  slight  tracery  of  that  balcon\-, 
As  one  whose  sorrow  was  but  soberness, — 
With  shade  of  disappointment  mingled  so, 
As  scarce  to  make  ve.^ation, — but  to  breathe 
Over  all,  face  and  figure  sometliing  still. 
That  looked  both  expectation  and  rebuke. 


62 


THE    MANTILLA. 


IIL 


She  was  a  Spanish  maid,  with  Spanish  soiil, 
And  re  went  quickly,  every  hope  or  pulse, 
From  fountain  through  her  frame.     She  had  said  all 
To  gladden  by  her  promises,  to  one 
Whom  she  held  worthy  of  her  golden  vows, 
Vowed  to  his  own  in  echo.     They  oft  met 
In  bower  and  halL, — until  the  tale  was  told, 
Of  isles  and  flowers  in  blue  meridian  seas, 
And  homes  the  fairies  envied.    She  must  go  1 
And  she  consented. 

It  was  now  the  night 
When  he,  whose  love  and  honor  had  entranced 
Her  young  affections  till  they  knew  no  life 
Save  for  him,  and  beside  him,  to  her  bower 
Should  come,  to  lift  her  to  those  dreamy  isles 
That  he  had  sung  of  in  their  dreamy  hours  I 


IV. 


But  he  came  not.    She  stood  there,  gazing  out 
Under  the  stars,  not  wondering,  but  in  fear! 
A  gem  was  pendant  at  her  marble  neck, 
And  her  hand  gloved  as  for  the  dasning  oar 
Should  lift  her  o'er  that  water.     From  her  head, 
And  down  her  shoulder,  floated  like  a  cloud 
A  dim  mantilla, — and  a  rose  had  fallen 
From  her  bent  waist,  close  to  her  flashing  feet. 


T  H  E    M  A  rs  T  1  L  b  A .  i 

V 

He  never  came  again.     Nor  did  she  glide 
Again  into  the  world.     But  clnoiucles 
Have  told  of  one  wiio  for  long  years  dlJ  Sjt 
Upon  that  balcony,  —  gazing  far  down 
Intently  on  the  water,  till  she  grew 
To  her  own  image,  or  saw  others  there 
That  would  not  let  her  go. 

At  last  a  shriek 
Startled  one  stormy  midnight,  and  a  call 
For  "  i.iercy  !  "  brake  the  waters  ! 

She  had  passed. 


r 


THE   FATAL   CHOICE. 

BV    MKS.   L.   K.    WELLS. 

-'Live  wound  its  chain  around  my  heart, 
Ambition  tore  the  linlis  apart." 

''Knew'et  thou  with  what  thou  wert  parting  here, 
Long  wouldst  thou  linger  in  doubt  and  learj 
Tny  hoi-t'e  light  laughter,  thy  sunny  hours. 
Thou    hast    left    in    our   shades   with   the   springs 
wild   Jiowers." 

-'  No,  Albert,  I  would  rather  be  an  eagle,  an& 
soar  towards  the  sun,  and  bathe  in  his  glorious 
beams,  than  that  poor  little  robin,  whose  life  you 
s''  much  admire." 

"  But,  Ellen,  the  home  of  the  eagle  is  amon* 
barren  locks,  and  amidst  storms  and  tempests. 
lie  may  not  dwell  on  the  beautiful  green  earth, 
or  have  his  rufTled  pinions  smoothed  by  the 
gentle  western  breeze,  nor  hear  the  soft  mur- 
muring of  waters,  nor  all  the  rich  melodies  that 
float  in  the  vales  alone.  He  dwells  on  the  lonely 
mountain  ;  the  lightnings  of  heaven,  the  dashing 
of  the  cataract,  and  dreary  desolation,  aro  about 
h'.m.     Would  you  choose  a  home  like  that  .* " 


"fMLJX  Rj, 


t.^- 


sir 


'-  T  •     •   -* 


«     c 


THE   FATAL    CHOICE.    .  65 

"  Yos,  oh  yes  !  I  am  weary  of  this  f%rae  and 
spifitiet'S  eiate  of  eyistence.  VVbai  \x  the  eagle 
is  alone  ? — do  not  luf^n  loIl  tn  reach  hid  retreats, 
liLid  pry  with  adr^iring  curiotiitj  into  his  inac- 
cessible haunts  ?  and  do  they  not  look  on  him 
with  awe.  and  wonder,  as  he  soars  among  the 
cloud,  and  rises  above  the  tempest,  as  if  he  were 
indeed  its  ruling  spirit  ? — and  does  not  the  gaze 
of  admiring  crowds  follow  him  as  he  looks  with 
undazzled  eye  on  the  meridian  sun,  and  rises 
higher  and  yet  higher  towards  the  glorious  orb, 
till  he  is  lost  in  the  dim  distance  ?  Give  me  a 
destiny  like  his,  and  I  could  bid  farewell  to  all 
the  melodies  of  lowly  life  without  one  pang  of 
regret." 

"  Ah,  Ellen,"  said  Albert,  laying  his  hand  on 
her  arm,  and  looking  mournfully  on  her  animated 
and  dazzling  beauty,  "  you  were  not  wont  to  talk 
thus.  When,  together,  we  planned  this  little 
retreat,  and  placed  the  rose-bushes  around  this 
arbor,  and  twined  the  honeysuckle  over  it,  you 
loved  more  quiet  and  simple  pleasures.  You 
watched  with  interest  the  robin,  as  she  gathered 
materials  for  her  nest,  and  you  would  sit  here  for 
hours,  with  your  sewing,  listening  to  the  gush 
of  the  fountain  which  sparkles  there  among  the 
white  sand, — to  the  warbling  of  the  birds,  and 


66  THE    FATAL    CHOICE. 

the  music  of  the  breeze.  You  looked  happy 
then,  and  more  quiet  and  gentle,  niethinks,  than 
now  ; — why  is  this  change  ?  " 

*'  Because  I  did  not  then  know  myself.  I 
did  not  know  the  lofty  aspirations  of  which  my 
Boul  was  capable,  or  the  fount  of  deep  feeling  in 
my  heart." 

"  Ellen,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  of  reproachful 
tenderness,  "has  the  heart  any  part  in  these 
aspirations  of  your  spirit  ?  Are  you  not  under 
the  sway  of  imagination,  a  dazzling,  but  cold 
and  bewildering  guide? — and  forgive  me,  if  1 
ask,  has  not  ambition  been  whispering  in  your 
ear  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  do  not  hesitate  to 
acknowledge  it.  I  would  impress  my  thoughts 
upon  the  minds  of  others ;  I  would  bear  sway 
over  human  intellect,  the  most  godlike  domin- 
ion ever  bestowed  upon  man." 

"  Ellen,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  deep  sorrow, 
"  I  see  the  destiny  you  have  chosen ;  my  dreams 
of  happiness  have  vanished  like  that  purple  cloud 
in  the  west,  which  I  have  watched  till  it  has 
melted  ah  av» ay ;  and,  for  tno  ra-r.e  reason, — 
the  sur.l;v,im3  have  dei>aited.  Ihio,  however,  I 
could  cndiirx'-.,  thou^rh  you  know  not,  you  never 
can  know,  ].o\r  closely  with  every  fibre  of  i»y 


THE    FATAL    CHOICE.  67 

Boul,  your  image  is  entwined  ;  yet  I  could 
endure  to  see  you  sparkling  far  above  me,  if 
you  were  to  be  happy.  But  the  time  will  come, 
when  woman's  heart  will  speak  within  you. 
You  will  weary  of  fame,  and  then  you  will  yearn 
for  the  voice  of  calm  affection,  and  your  mem- 
ory will  turn  to  the  image  of  those  quiet  haunts, 
as  the  fainting  traveller,  in  the  desert,  dreams 
of  the  cool,  sparkling  fountain,  in  his  home 
among  the  hills.  You  know  the  powers  of  your 
intellect  and  fancy ;  but,  dazzled  by  ambition, 
vou  do  not  know  your  heart.  You  have  been 
nurtured  in  the  midst  of  tenderness, — an  atmo- 
sphere of  love  has  been  around  you  from  your 
infancy ;  the  voice  of  affection  has  mingled  with 
your  earliest  dreams,  and  you  know  not  how 
necessary  it  is  to  your  existence.  Like  the  sweet 
air  of  heaven,  you  neither  see  nor  feel  it  now, 
but,  when  it  is  withdrawn,  you  will  droop  and 
wither.  Ellen,  you  will  go  far  away  from  me ; 
that  haughty  stranger,  with  his  burning  thoughts 
and  eloquent  lip,  has  won  you ;  but  you  may  not 
go  without  knowing  how  deeply  the  love,  of 
which  I  have  never  yet  breathed  a  word  to  you, 
is  engraven  in  my  soul. 

"  Love  for  you  is  the  first  emotion  I  can  recol- 
lect ;  and,  even  in  childhood,  there  was  a  ten- 


G8  THE    FATAL    CHOICE. 

derness,  a  feeling  of  protecting  kindness  in  my 
love  for  you,  which  I  did  not  feel  for  nay  sisters. 
How  I  have  lived  but  for  you  in  later  years, 
you  well  know.  Our  walks,  our  amusements,  our 
books,  our  conversation, — ^has  it  not  been  but 
as  one  soul  speaking  by  two  voices  ?  Ellen,  I 
know  I  am  scarcely  worthy  of  you ;  but  that 
stranger,  with  all  his  brilliancy  and  genius,  has 
not  a  heart  like  mine  to  bestow.  That  eager 
look,  that  impetuous  flow  of  glowing  thoughts  and 
images,  that  haughty  air,  which  makes  inferior 
minds  shrink  before  him,  do  not  veil,  as  you 
fondly  imagine,  deep  afi"ections,  but  a  cold  heart, 
awake  only  to  the  promptings  of  ambition.  I 
speak  calmly  and  advisedly.  !My  afi'ection  for 
you  is  too  pure  and  exalted  to  admit  of  jealousy. 
Think  for  one  moment,  before  you  decide  to 
barter  the  priceless  wealth  of  your  afi"ectiou3 
with  so  cold  a  being  ; — cannot  you  yet  be  happy 
here  as  in  former  years  ?  " 

She  paused  a  moment  before  replying.  His 
lip  quivered,  and,  for  an  instant,  a  flush  of  hope 
passed  over  his  countenance.  At  length  she 
answered : 

"  No,  Albert,  it  is  impossible.  He  has  awak- 
ened feelings  which  can  never  be  hushed.  I 
must  Boar,  if  it  be  only  to  fall ; — I  must  climb 


THE    FATAL    CHOICE.  69 

the  dizzy  steep,  even  if  it  be  full  of  hazard,  I 
deeply  feel  your  affection,  and  the  time  Las  been 
when, — but  that  is  past, — God's  blessing  be  with 
you,  and,  witli  some  gentle  being  with  affections 
warm  and  devoted  as  your  own,  may  you  yet  be 
happy." 

He  turned  quickly  away ;  for  emotions  of  which 
manhood  is  always  ashamed,  were  rising,  and 
burning  tsars,  not  for  himself,  but  for  her,  were 
starting  from  his  eyes. 

Ellen  remained  for  some  moments  lost  in 
thought.  It  was  the  hour  of  summer  twilight ; 
she  was  in  a  spot  which  had  been  a  favorite  re- 
treat of  her  childhood,  and,  in  later  years,  Al- 
bert, guided  by  her  taste,  had  gathered  around 
it  many  quiet  beauties.  Under  the  shade  of  three 
wide-spreading  oaks,  a  rustic  alcove,  with  seats 
had  been  formed,  a  woodbine  had  been  trained 
over  it,  and  it  was  so  surrounded  by  roses  of 
every  shade,  that  they  had  given  it  the  name  of 
*'  the  home  of  the  roses."  On  the  left,  just  at 
the  foot  of  a  smooth,  green  hill,  a  cool,  sparkling 
fountain  boiled  up  in  the  midst  of  pure  white 
sand,  and  became  a  tiny  brook,  winding  through 
the  valley  with  so  many  backward  turnings,  that 
one  would  fancy  it  louth  to  leave  the  quiet  spot. 
On  the  right,  under  the  shade  of  two  elms,  that 


70  THE    FATAL    CHOICE. 

gracefully  entwined  their  limbs  above  it,  was  her 
mother's  grave.  She  had  died  when  Ellen  wr.s 
BO  youug  that  she  remembered  little  of  her,  ex- 
cept the  melodious  sweetness  of  her  voice, 
the  subdued  expression  of  her  pale  face,  and  tho 
atmosphere  of  quiet,  which  seemed  to  breathe 
around  her.  Had  she  lived,  ]3llen  would,  doubt- 
loss,  have  been  a  very  different  being.  This 
parent  was  sensitive  and  warm  in  her  affections, 
but  she  had  been  chastened  by  early  sorrows. 
She  saw  the  world  as  it  was,  and,  while  entering, 
with  warm  sympathy,  into  the  feelings  of  others, 
she  was  not  misled  by  the  false  coloring  of  fan- 
cy. Calmness  and  repose  formed  the  beautiful 
groundwork  of  her  character,  which  was  deli- 
cately shaded  with  all  the  quiet  virtues. 
Though  Ellen  was  but  six  years  old  when  she 
died,  she  saw  the  dangerous  gifts  of  her  child, 
and  her  last  hour  was  spent  in  prayer  for  her, 
that  a  "  heart,  so  perilously  fashioned,"  might 
be  shielded,  by  a  Saviour's  love,  from  this 
world's  temptations.  She  died,  and  her  place 
was  but  poorly  supplied  by  an  indolent  and  self- 
ish step-mother,  sufficiently  indulgent,  indeed 
because  she  wanted  energy  to  control  tho  im- 
petuous child,  but  ignorant  of  her  character  and 
capacities.     Her  father's  talenls  fitted  him  to  bo 


I 


THE    FATAL    CHOICE. 


her  friend  and  guide ;  but  he  was  too  dotingly 
fond  of  her  to  see  that  she  had  a  fault.  Her 
sisters,  too,  almost  idolized  her.  They  were 
much  older  than  herself,  and,  while  she  was  yet 
a  child,  all  but  one  left  their  father's  mansion ; 
and  she  was  a  sickly,  gentle  being,  and  left  the 
bright,  playful  child  to  pursue  her  own  fancies. 

Albert  Carlton  was  her  early  playmate ;  they 
grew  up  together,  and,  as  she  had  no  brother, 
she  transferred  to  him  all  the  affections  of  a 
sister.  He  was  four  years  older  than  herself ; 
but,  as  his  leisure  for  reading  was  limited,  com- 
pared with  hers,  the  quickness  of  her  intellect 
fitted  her  to  be  the  director  of  his  taste  and 
mind.  She  recommended  the  books  he  read,  and 
guided  in  a  great  measure  the  judgments  he 
formed  in  early  youth ;  but,  as  he  approached 
manhood,  his  calm,  reflecting  mind  often  cor- 
rected the  wild  vagaries  of  her  fancy.  Perhaps 
there  is  no  tie  more  near  and  close,  between  gen- 
erous spirits,  than  the  mutual  consciousness  of 
conferring  and  receiving  benefits.  Ellen  felt 
that  his  taste  had  been  formed  by  her  influence. 
With  many  women,  this  circumstance  would  have 
had  little  influence.  But  hers  was  no  common 
spirit.  She  loved  to  feel  that  she  was  influeno- 
inw  the  minds  of  others, — that  she  was  looked 


72  THE    FATAL    CHOICE. 

up  to,  witli  respect  and  admiration,  as  well  as 
tenderness.  On  the  other  hand,  Albert  felt  a 
constant  care  for  the  ardent,  gifted,  and  impetu- 
ous being  who  honored  him  with  her  confidence 
and  affection.  He  understood  her  character,  and 
often,  with  the  utmost  gentleness,  without  her 
suspecting  his  purpose,  corrected  her  judgment, 
softened  her  prejudices,  and  induced  her  to  re- 
linquish mar.y  a  wild,  impracticable  scheme.  Yet 
not  a  word  of  love  had  ever  passed  between 
them.  It  seemed  so  perfectly  natural  that  they 
should  be  much  in  each  other's  society,  that  they 
had  never  asked  themselves  the  reason.  At  least, 
Ellen  had  not ;  though  something  more  deep  and 
tender  than  a  sister's  love  spoke  in  the  care  with 
which  she  cherished  the  flowers  he  gave  her,  in 
her  fondness  for  his  favorite  tunes,  her  uneasi- 
ness when  his  absence  was  protracted,  and 
the  bright  glow  which  sent  light  to  her  eye  and 
bloom  to  her  cheek,  when  they  met  again ;  but 
of  all  this  she  was  wholly  unconscious.  Per- 
haps Albert's  thoughts  took  a  more  tangible 
form,  but  he  had  never  embodied  them  in  words. 
When  Ellen  was  in  her  seventeenth  year,  a 
Btranger,  from  a  distant  city,  by  the  name  of 
Beaufort,  came  to  pass  a  few  months  iu  that 
retired  spot,  to  restore  his  health,  which  had  been 


THE    FATAL    CHOICE.  73 

impaired  by  close  study.  He  boarded  at  her 
father's  house,  and,  for  a  time,  his  manner  weis 
haughty  and  reserved.  He  looked,  with  an 
indifr3rence,  to  which  she  had  been  little  accus- 
tomed, on  the  rustic  beauty,  and  she  in  her 
turn,  p;qued  by  his  coldness,  was  too  proud  to 
seek  his  admiration.  Albert  felt  a  little  unquiet 
when  he  first  saw  the  handsome  face  and  com- 
manding mien  of  the  young  stranger ;  but  his 
fears  subsided,  when  he  found  that  his  walks, 
reading,  and  conversation  with  Ellen  were  not  in- 
terrupted. It  was  not  long,  however,  before  some 
bursts  of  eloquence  from  Beaufort  touched  an 
answering  chord  in  Ellen's  heart ;  he  marked 
the  flash  of  inielligence  in  her  fine  eye,  and  a 
deep  interest  was  awakened.  He  now  sought 
opportunities  of  conversing  with  her,  and  soon 
found,  that  she  possessed  a  glowing  fancy,  a 
taste  formed  after  the  purest  models,  strong  in- 
tellectual powers,  and  a  heart  capable  of  warm 
and  devoted  attachment.  He  now  began  to  look 
with  a  dark  and  suspicious  eye  on  the  mild, 
retiring  friend,  who  engrossed  so  much  of  her 
atfention. 

"  Ellen,  said  he  to  her,  "  how  can  you  devot© 
so  much  of  your  time  to  that  rustic  ?'* 

*'  Because   I  know  his  worth  better  than  you 


74  THK    FATAL    CHOICE. 

do,"  she  replied,  with  an  indignant  air ;  "he  has 
been  as  a  brother  to  me  from  my  childhood." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Beaufort,  with  a  smile 
"he  may  be  a  very  good  brother,  for  aught  I 
know  bit  you  are  worthy  of  the  society  and 
homage  of  other  minds.  With  a  soul  formed 
to  delight  in  all  that  is  beautiful  in  nature,  in 
science,  and  in  art,  I  cannot  endure  to  see  you 
pass  your  days  in  such  deep  seclusion.  I  long  to 
see  you,  with  all  your  native  loveliness  and  sim- 
plicity, where  your  powers  would  be  awakened 
by  the  society  of  minds  attuned  like  your  own." 

The  blood  mantled  in  her  cheek  and  brow, 
and  he  saw  that  the  poison  was  infused  into 
her  veins.  Then,  in  tones  of  such  eloquence  as 
she  had  never  before  listened  to,  he  described 
the  brilliant  and  intellectual  society  in  which  he 
had  mingled,  —  painted  the  wonders  of  art  he 
had  seen  in  his  travels,  —  dwelt  with  seductive 
interest  on  the  pleasure  attending  the  conscious 
ness  of  bearing  sway  over  other  minds,  and  the 
mere  feeling  of  mental  power.  She  listened, 
with  breathless  eagerness  ;  and  then  he  alluded, 
daikly  nuleed,  but  with  sufficient  dislinclncss 
to  his  own  plans  and  prospects  for  life  ;  ana 
with  an'air  of  proud  humility,  added,  "I  know 
not  what  I  may  be  ;  but  this  I  know,  I  will  never 


THE    FATAL,    CHOICE.  75 

plod  contentedly  on  with  the   herd  of  spiritless 
beings  around  ine." 

This  conversation  infused  a  new  spirit  into 
Ellen ;  her  pursuits  appeared  grovelling  and 
mean,  and  his  words  were  constantly  ringing  in 
her  ears,  when  she  attempted  to  follow  her  for- 
mer occupations.  She  became  thoughtful  and 
pale,  and  Beaufort's  vanity  was  flattered  by  the 
hope  that  he  was  the  cause.  He  was  interested 
in  her  peculiar  character,  where  simplicity,  im- 
agination, and  intellect  were  singularly  blended. 
He  loved  her,  too,  perhaps,  as  well  as  one  is 
capable  of  loving,  when  the  aflections  have  been 
made  wholly  subservient  to  the  intellect. 

"  Ellen,"  said  he  to  her  one  evening,  "  you 
look  sad,  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  it.  In  this 
seclusion,  where  there  are  so  few  kindred  spirits, 
your  mind  must  prey  upon  itself,  and  retire 
within  its  own  deep  recesses." 

"  I  did  not  know  my  own  privations  or  wants," 
she  replied  with  affected  gayety,  but  in  a  voice 
slightly  tremulous,  "  till  I  saw  you.  You  have 
awakened  the  consciousness  of  powers  and  cf 
desires,  which  I  would  that  I  had  never  known. 
Once  I  was  happy  in  my  duties,  happy  in  my 
ignorance  ;  now  I  am  ■  doomed  to  feel  a  vain 
thirsting  for  intellectual  pleasures  and  distinc- 
tions I  must  not  hope  to  reach.- 


76  THE    FATAL   CHOICE. 

"  Must  not  ?"  said  he,  in  an  inquiring,  softened 
tone  ;  "  to-morrow,  I  leave  you,  Ellen,  to  engage 
again  in  the  exciting  bustle  of  the  world.  I  am 
striving  to  rise,  —  perhaps,  to  fall  ;  but  may  I 
carry  with  me  the  assurance  that  one  heart,  at 
least,  will  watch  my  struggles  with  kind  inter- 
est ? "  A  starting  tear  was  her  only  answer. 
"  Farewell,  then,"  said  he,  grasping  her  hand, 
and  bending  his  gaze  on  her  as  if  he  would  read 
her  thoughts ;  "  if  I  rise  where  I  hope,  it  shall 
be  3'our  own  fault,  loveliest  and  purest,  if  you 
remain  pining  in  hopeless  obscurity." 

It  was  on  the  evening  after  his  departure,  that 
the  scene,  with  which  we  opened  our  little  nar- 
ralive^  occurred.  Albert"  invited  her  to  walk ; 
and,  after  some  time  spent  in  almost  silent  ram- 
bling, they  sought  the  bower  which  had  been 
formed  by  their  united  taste  and  skill.  They  had 
stood  for  some  moments  listeninfr  to  the  evening 
song  of  the  robin,  when  Albert  sfiid,  "  If  I  could 
be  content  to  part  with  the  high  birthright  of 
reason,  I  would  rather  be  that  robin  than  any 
thing  r.'lsf!." 

The  conversation  that  followed  blighted  the 
clierished  hopes  of  ye;irs.  After  he  left  l)er, 
Ellen's  eye  feL  on  her  mother's  grave,  and  the 
dcaUibcd  scene  rose  before   her.     One   petition 


™^* 


THE   FATAL    CifOXCE.  77 

which  she  remembered  as  always  being  repeated 
in  her  mother's  prayers  for  her,  now  rung  like 
a  knell  in  her  ears.  "  Keep  her,  oh,  heavenly 
Father,  fiom  that  pride  which  goeth  before  de 
struction,  and  that  haughty  spirit  which  is  before 
a  fall."  "Oh,  my  mother,  my  mother,"  murmur- 
ed siie,  "  did  you  even  then  see,  with  a  prophetic 
spirit,  the  danger  of  your  child  ?  Is  it,  indeed,  for 
pride,  that  I  have  spurned  the  pure  and  enduring 
affection  of  that  gentle  being,  who  would  have 
lived  for  me  alone  ?"  She  was  softened,  and,  for 
a  moment,  almost  resolved  to  revoke  the  cruGi 
sentence  she  had  just  pronounced.  But  Beau- 
fort, with  all  his  commanding  dignity  of  manner 
and  seductive  eloquence,  was  before  her,  and 
she  said,  "  No,  I  will  not  throw  away  the  prize 
within  my  grasp,  from  a  foolish,  superstitious  fear 
that  my  ambition  may  be  wrong." 

After  this  time,  the  two  friends  seldom  saw 
each  other ;  but  each  was  sensible  of  a  painful 
void.  Ellen,  indeed,  thought  it  was  nothing  more 
than  just  the  change,  the  mere  deprivation  of 
what  she  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to.  Albert 
grew  pale  and  thin,  and  lost  all  relish  for  the 
ple.xsures  he  had  once  loved,  now  that  she  no 
longer  shared  them.  Yet  he  never  upbraided 
ner ;   and,  when   he   could  show   her  any  little 


78  THE    FATAL    CHOICE. 

kindness,  he  did  it  with  an  alacrity,  that  told 
how  dear  her  happiness  was  still  to  him.  There 
was  a  touching  sadness  in  his  manner,  niore 
Bubd';ing  to  a  high  spirit,  like  Ellen's,  than  the 
most  eloquent  protestations  of  regret  could  have 
been.  She  was  disquieted  and  unhappy ;  and 
she  knew  not  why  ;  but,  whenever  her  mother's 
image  recurred  to  her  fancy,  it  seemed  to  wear 
a  look  of  reproof  and  sorrow. 

In  a  few  weeks,  all  these  melancholy  feelings 
were  banished  by  a  letter  from  Beaufort,  full  of 
hope  and  exultation.  He  had  entered  on  the 
arena  of  political  life ;  and,  at  a  very  early  age, 
was  elected,  against  a  powerful  opposition,  to  a 
scat  in  Congress.  After  dwelling,  at  some  length, 
on  the  past  struggle,  he  went  on  to  say;  "Chosen, 
as  I  have  been,  by  the  unbought  suffrages  of  free- 
men, as  a  guardian  of  their  dearest  rights,  it  will 
be  my  first  object  faithfully  to  perform  my  duty 
to  my  country.  1  know  not  what  is  before  mc, 
but  a  bright  vista  now  seems  opsning,  and  1 
hope  to  enrol  my  name  among  those  whom  my 
country  delights  to  honor.  I  would  not  die,  and 
have  all  perish  with  me  ;  but  wouid  transmit 
my  name,  as  u  talisman,  to  awaken  the  memory 
of  all  that  is  generous  and  self-sacj'ificing  in  the 
love  of  country.     And  you,  Ellen,  1  feci  that  you 


THE    FATAL    CHOICE.  79 

nave  a  spirit  in  unison  with  my  own,  and  that 
your  genius  is  worthy  of  a  place  among  those, 
who  would  not  waste  all  the  energies  of  a  death- 
less mind  in  the  dull  routine  of  daily  duties." 

All  this,  and  much  more  of  the  same  charac- 
ter, Ellen  read  with  delightful  anticipations,  that 
blinded  her  to  the  heartlessness  apparent  through 
the  whole.  She  could  not,  or  would  not  see, 
that  ambition,  thinly  disguised,  indeed,  by  the 
veil  of  patriotism,  but  still  ambition,  was  the- 
ruling  principle,  and  that  domestic  happiness 
had  no  place  in  his  hopes.  She  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  reading  the  letter  to 
Albert,  and  asked   him,  at  the   close, 

"  Has  he  not  a  noble  heart .?" 

"  Do  not  ask  me,  Ellen  ;  it  is  too  late.  He 
IS  highly  gifted, 'no  doubt ;  but,  for  your  sake,  I 
could  wish  there  was  less  of  the  feverish  excite- 
ment of  gratified,  and  yet  grasping  ambition." 

Albert  soon  found,  that  he  could  not  remain 
where  every  object  awakened  bitter  thoughts 
After  revolving  various  plans  of  life,  he  decided 
on  becoming  a  physician.  "  In  ministering  to  the 
woes  of  others,  and  relieving  their  real  distresses, 
1  may,"  thought  he,  "  lose  sight  of  m.y  imaginary 
ones,  and  may,  in  time,  forget  '  that  the  iron  has 
entered  into  my  soul.' " 


9#  1H&   fXtii,   CUfttCZ, 

He  left  Ins  natire  viOa^  wrdi  a  «ie:eTimnJli(M 
to  refnro  ibene'  no  more,  till  £Ileo  hail  (k^ned 
Sue  new  lost  si^tt  of  biro,  and  onfjr  beard,  inci- 
deauMj  and  at  lon^  intervals,  tbat  be  was 
dklingMisbed  as  a  scbolar,  and  beEoved  for  bts 
pbilamhnijyf.  **  I  wtsfa,**  ahe  sometinies  said  to 
faer%if,  **  I  could  bare  retained  bim  as  a  brtrtber 
and  friend ;  bot  tbese  men  are  so  gra^ng,  tbej 
»nMt  be  tbe  wbole,  or  tbej  will  be  nodnn^** 
•  In  two  years,  Beaofort  csune  to  claim  ber  as 
bis  bride.  His  d£lntt  in  Congress  was  most 
eloquent,  and  bis  name  lesoonded  from  one 
extreroi^  of  tbe  land  to  tbe  otber.  Ktlen  ex- 
pected to  see  biro  with  tbe  air  of  trimnpb  and 
conscJoos  power  in  lus  eye  and  roein.  But, 
tboogb  be  was  larisb  of  admiration  and  brilliaot 
predictions  ior  ber,  be  spoke  of  wearioeas  and 
dissatialaction,  and  locked  forward  to  tbe  time 
wben  a  seat  in  tbe  Senate  should  release  bim 
from  some  of  bis  present  relations. 

It  was  Sabbath  evening;  they  were  to  be 
oniled  in  the  morning,  and  immedlatety  to  com- 
mence a  tour  through  some  of  tbe  roost  pic- 
taresque  parts  of  ilie  country.  Just  at  mitMH, 
ElSen  went  alone  to  ber  mother^s  grave,  and  to 
that  bower,  **  the  home  of  tbe  ro«c»."  It  was 
the  same  hoar,  and  there  was  the  same  purple 


THE    FATAL    CHOICE  8l 

cloud,  as  it  seemed,  as  when  she  first  revealed 
to  Albert  llie  new  hopes  which  were  to  be,  in 
future,  her  suidinjj  star.  She  lingered  till  the 
stars  of  evening  appeared,  one  after  another, 
"  like  infant  births  of  light"  VvTiat  were  her 
thoughts  we  know  not  ;  but,  ere  she  left  that 
hallowed  spot,  she  knelt  upon  the  grave  and 
breathed,  for  herself,  and  for  him  to  whom  her 
destinies  were  so  soon  to  be  united,  her  moth- 
er's prayer.  "  Keep  me,  and  him  too,  oh  my 
heavenly  Father,  from  that  pride  which  goelh 
before  destruction,  and  that  haughty  spirit  which 
is  before  a  fall."  But  prayer,  without  efil^rt  or 
watchfulness  to  avoid  temptation,  what  does  it 
avail  with  that  Being  who  looks  upon  the  heart  ? 
Pass  we  over  some  years.  Beaufort  has 
received,  one  after  another,  some  of  the  highest 
offices  in  his  countrj^'s  gift :  but,  still  restless 
and  unsatisfied,  he  cries,  "  Give,  give."  Har- 
assed, weary,  and  care-worn,  he  came  to  his 
home  to  contrive,  with  his  wife,  new  schemes  of 
ambition,  and  new  methods  of  circumventing  his 
rivals.  And  Ellen, —  how  does  her  woman's  heart 
bear  all  this,  so  foreign  to  her  nature,  and  to 
all  her  previous  habits  ?  For  a  while  she  entered 
with  eagerness  into  all  his  plans  and  interests. 
And,  in  witnessing  his  success,  she  fancied  her- 
6 


82  THE    FATAL    CHOICE. 

Bolf  happy.  One  scene  of  high  excitemejit  fol 
lowed  another,  so  rapidly,  that  she  had  no  time 
to  think.  She  saw  licr  husband  caressed  and 
flattered,  and  beheld  inferior  minds  vainly  slr-A'iiig 
to  reach  the  dazzling  height  where  he  stood. 
The  voice  of  fame  rung  in  her  ear,  in  tones 
more  dear  to  the  heart  of  woman,  than  if  its  rich 
music  had  been  breathed  for  her  alone.  It  was 
for  him,  who  was  the  object  of  her  pride  and  de- 
votion, that  those  seductive  strains  were  breathed, 
and  for  him  that  the  incense  of  flattery  rose  in 
intoxicating  perfumes.  She,  too,  as  united  to 
him,  received  her  full  share  of  homage  ;  and 
not  for  that  alone  ;  but  her  beauty  and  brilliancy, 
together  with  the  freshness  and  originality  of  a 
vifTorous  mind,  foi'med  in  seclusion  and  from 
books  alone,  made  her  an  object  of  admiration 
and  envy.  Ilcr  opinions  were  sought,  her  in- 
fluence craved,  and  her  sayings  repeated  with 
applause.  She  proudly  felt,  that  now,  indeed, 
she  bore  sway  over  other  minds.  All  her  fancy 
had  pictured,  all  her  soaring  ambition  asked,  was 
now  hers.  ^Vns  she  happy  ?  We  know  not  ; 
she  never  said  she  was  not.  But  there  was,  at 
times,  a  weariness  in  her  step,  and  a  listli;ssness 
in  her  mien,  and  a  vacant  look,  as  if  her 
lhou"lits    were    far    away.      There    were    some 


TI/E    FATAIi    CHOICE.  83 

simple  and  touching  strains   of  mus!c  to  w  lich 
she  could  not,  or  would  not,  listen. 

There  was  a  brilliant  festival  in  Beaufort's 
sjilendid  home.  The  elegant,  the  polished,  and 
the  intellectual,  of  our  own  and  some  other 
lands,  were  gathered  in  one  dazzling  assembly, 
Ellen  was  gliding  from  one  gay  group  'to  another, 
the  very  personification  of  beauty,  dignity,  and 
grace.  At  her  request,  a  lovely  girl,  whose  very 
soul  seemed  to  gush  out  in  song,  took  a  seat 
by  the  piano,  and  called  out  rich  tones  of  har- 
mony, which  she  accompanied  with  her  voice. 
Ellen  was  leaning,  enraptured,  over  her.  Sud- 
denly, she  struck  the  notes  of  "  Home,  sweet 
home,"  while  her  voice  poured  forth  a  sti'ain 
of  melody,  so  full  and  sweet,  that  every  sound 
was  hushed  through  the  crowded  suite  of 
apartments.  Ellen  started  as  if  an  adder  had 
stung  her,  and,  forgetting  every  thing  but  those 
sounds,  so  full  of  anguish  to  her,  she  rushed 
into  an  adjoining  boudoir,  and,  sinking  upon  a 
couch,  put  her  hands  upon  her  ears  to  shut 
out  the  tones.  A  look  of  surprise  and  won- 
der passed  round  the  circle ;  but  in  a  few  mo- 
ments sho  made  hoi  appearance,  perfectly  calm 
again,  and  apologized  by  referring  her  emotion 
tc  some  early  and  peculiar  associaliori.s. 


84  THE    FATAL    CHOICE. 

After  some  years  she  became  a  mother.  Tlio 
infant  lived  jusl  long  enough  to  stir  the  deep 
fountain  of  a  mother's  love,  and  then  was 
snatched  away.  Deeply  and  bitterly  did  siio 
mourn.  But  her  husband  was  now  in  the  midst 
of  a  nev/  scheme,  which  promised  complete  suc- 
cess to  his  party,  and  he  could  hardly  spare  timo 
to  shed  one  tear  over  the  babe,  beautiful,  even 
in  death  Once,  indeed,  he  showed  some  emo- 
tion ;  when  taking  the  last  look  of  the  body, 
from  which  the  unsullied  spirit  had  departed,  he 
said,  in  a  suppressed  voice,  "  Thou  couldst  not 
have  had  a  better  time  to  die,  pure  as  thou  wcrt. 
Would  that  I  had  been  taken,  like  thee,  before 
the  dark  stains  of  earth  were  upon  my  soul." 
Ellen  now  opened  her  mothcr''s  Bibic,  which  she 
had  always  kept  near  her ;  but  a  darkness 
seemed  to  shroud  its  pages,  once  so  full  of  ligh,. 
and  hope.  Her  husband  was  a  skeptic.  He 
had  never,  indeed,  tried  to  make  a  proselyte  of 
her  ;  but  he  was  one  of  those,  who  must  e.\ert 
a  commanding  influence  over  other  minds,  for 
good  or  for  evil.  She  had,  insensibly,  imbibed 
liis  cold  and  heartless  views  of  the  Deity,  and 
could  find  no  consolation  from  the  bright  hopes 
and  cheering  promises  of  the  Gospel  A  midnight 
f;loom  now  settled  down  upon  her.     She  shunned 


THE    FATAL    CHOICE.  8? 

society,  and  took  no  interest  in  her  husband's 
ambitious  schemes.  For  a  while  he  tried  to  hire 
her  into  the  gay  world  again,  but  in  vain.  Up- 
braidings  and  reproaches,  for  her  want  of  energy, 
fol'owed  ;  but,  finding  it  all  fruitless,  he  left  her 
m  her  desolation,  and  pursued  his  path  alone. 
Among  all  her  summer  friends,  not  one  knew  or 
cared  for  the  secret  of  her  grief,  not  one  probed 
the  wounded  spirit,  or  shed  upon  the  benighted 
mind  the  beams  of  heavenly  hope. 

Then  she  began  to  feel  deep  yearnings  for 
the  voices  of  love  in  her  early  home.  They 
were  with  her  in  her  dreams,  and  she  awoke 
but  to  feel  the  vain  thirstinsrs  of  a  desolate  heart. 
That  early  friend,  with  all  his  forbearing  tender- 
ness, his  pure  and  devoted  affection,  was  before 
her.  Her  mother's  spirit  seemed  hovering  over 
her  with  a  look  of  pitying  love.  Her  father's 
prayer,  which  was  ofl"ered  each  morning  and 
evening,  in  lowly  guise,  before  the  family  altar, 
when  the  youngest  blossom  of  their  house  was 
always  specially  remembered,  was  indelibly  im- 
pressed on  her  memory.  "  Once  more,"  thought 
she,  "  could  I  but  hear  that  prayer  once  more 
methiiiks  it  would  descend  like  cooling  dew  on 
my  withered  and  burning  brain.  These  thoughts 
and   imacinintrs  she  revealed   to  no  one.     Her 


SR  THE    FATAL    CHOICE. 

husban<l  would  htive  spurned  them  as  childish 
folly,  and  other  friend  she  had  not.  She  hoarded 
them  in  the  depths  of  her  soul,  and  brooiled  over 
them  unceasingly.  Hour  after  hour  she  would 
sit  by  her  piano,  listlessly  running  over  the  keys, 
and  singing  snatches  of  old  songs,  such  as  the 
young  girls,  in  the  vicinity  of  her  cottage-nome 
sung  when  pacing  back  and  forwards  at  their 
wheels.  Or  she  would  chant  the  solemn  melo- 
dies, which  she  had  heard  in  the  simple  strains  of 
vocal  music,  in  the  unadorned  building  where  she 
first  joined  in  the  public  worship  of  her  father's 
God.  By  degrees  these  musical  reminiscences 
of  the  past  changed  to  yet  closer  communings 
with  the  shadows  that  now  began  to  seem  as 
realities.  When  alone,  she  would  convei*se  for 
hours  with  these  imaginary  beings ;  and  then  the 
treasured  memories  of  years,  and  deep,  burning, 
consuming  thoushts  she  would  scatter  to  the  idle 
winds.  For  a  while  she  indulged,  voluntarily,  in 
this  spiritual  converse,  conscious  that  the  forms 
existed  in  her  own  fancy  alone.  But  as  rea- 
son's lamp  glimmered  yet  more  and  more  dimly 
through  the  mists,  she  lost  the  power  of  distin 
guishlng  illusions  from  realities. 

It  was  after  a  closely  contested  choice,  when 
Beaufort  had  at  last  succeeded  in  obtaining  what 


THE    FATAL    CHOICE/  87 

he  had  long  desired,  an  appointment  to  a  distin 
guished  foreign  court,  that  he  returned,  at  a  iate 
liour.  As  he  walked  slowly  homewards,  he 
tliought  with  unwonted  tenderness  of  his  once 
gay  and  beautiful,  but  now  heart-stricken  wife. 
"  This  voyage  and  change  of  scene  will,  1  trust, 
restore  her  to  her  former  self;  and  I  will  exert 
myself  more,  now  that  I  have  leisure,  lo  awaken 
harmony  in  the  shattered  chords  of  her  soul. 
Hers  was  an  exquisitely  strung  spirit.  I  fear  I 
have  neglected  her."  When  he  entered  the  cham- 
ber, he  was  surprised  to  find  her  still  watching. 
She  was  silting  in  a  large  easy-chair,  in  which 
her  emaciated  form  seemed  almost  buried.  She 
was  robed  in  a  loose  night-dress,  and  her  rich, 
brown  hair  fell  in  a  dishevelled  mass  upon  her 
shoulders.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  vacancy,  and 
her  lips  moved  rapidly.  He  entered  and  stood 
by  her  side,  but  she  did  not  see  him.  Her  voice 
soon  rose  to  an  audible  whisper,  and  he  could 
distinguish  the  words,  "Mother,  Isabel,  why  don't 
you  speak  to  me  ?  —  why  do  you  look  so  silently 
on  me  with  your  'cold,  bright  eyes'?  —  Speak 
and  tell  me  of  that  land  of  rest,  where  I  lonff  tc 
be  with  you.  Ha !  why  did  they  say  you  were 
dead,  —  now  you  are  here,  —  come  't  is  almost 
sunset ;  we  will  go  to  '  the  home  of  the  roses,'  — 


88  •  THE    FATAL    CHOICfc. 

there  is  a  cloud,  a  purple  cloud,  they  say," — and 
her  voice  sunk  so  as  to  bo  inaudible.  Beaufort 
shook  in  every  nerve  ;  and,  at  that  moment, 
vlien  viewing  the  fearful  wreck  of  an  immortal 
mind,  what  to  hum  was  fame,  or  all  the  success 
that  had  followed  his  footsteps  ? 

"  Ellen,"  said  he,  at  last,  tenderly  taking  her 
hand,  which  was  so  cold  that  he  shuddered, 
"  you  are  not  well  to  night.  Had  you  not  better 
try  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  Well .''  oh  yes,  never  better,"  bursting  into  a 
wild  laugh  ;  "  only  't  is  so  strange  they  won't 
speak  to  me,  and  tliere  they  have  been  these  two 
hours  ;  nor  walk  with  me,  either,  when  my  head 
is  burning  so,  and  the  sweet  dews  of  heaven 
would  cool  it.  Come,  you  will  go  with  me,  and 
bathe  my  brow  in  that  cool,  boiling  spring  ;  oh, 
how  pure  it  looks,  and  how  the  bright  sand  spar- 
kles round  it ;  there  we  will  rest,  in  that  shaded 
bovver.  Albert  is  there  already  ;  he  told  me  I 
was  ambitious,  once  ;  but  I  am  humble,  oh,  very 
humble  now,  and  I  would  that  gentle  sister  Isabel 
would  come  and  sing  me  to  sleep,"  —  and  a 
passionate  burst  of  tears  relieved,  for  a  few 
moments,  the  fire  in  her  bniin. 

The  morrow  brought  no  change  for  the  better 
but   wilder    fantasies    hovered    around    her,  anJ 


THE  fataxj  choice.  89 

shouts  of  wild  mirth  rung  from  her  lonely  cham- 
ber. 

It  was  necessary  that  Beaufort  should  depart 
for  his  destined  station  ;  and,  after  a  severe  strug- 
gle with  his  pride,  he  decided  on  placing  his 
wife  in  a  private  hospital  for  the  insane.  When 
they  arrived,  his  first  inquiry  was  for  the  attend- 
ing physician  ;  when  a  noble  looking  man,  with 
an  intellectual  and  most  benignant  countenance, 
entered  the  room.  Something  in  the  expression 
of  his  countenance  perplexed  Beaufort ;  some 
long-forgotten  memories  haunted  him,  and,  when 
the  physician  spoke,  he  was  confident  that  he  had 
heard  the  full  and  rich,  though  mild,  tones  of 
that  voice  before.  After  mentioning,  in  brief  and 
sternly  calm  and  cold  terms,  his  sad  errand,  he 
announced  his  name.  The  physician  started  and 
bent  his  placid  eye,  with  an  incredulous  and  sor- 
rowful gaze,  upon  him,  for  a  moment,  before 
giving  his  own.  When  he  said,  "Doctor  Al- 
bert. Carlton,"  in  a  slow,  firm  voice,  Beaufort 
started  in  his  turn.  After  passing  his  hand, 
with  a  troubled  look,  aci-oss  his  brow,  he,said, 

"  I  oclicve  I  recollect  you,  Sir  ;  5'ou  were  the 
early  friend  of  my  poor  Ellen,"  and,  as  fancy 
pictured  her  as  she  once  was,  his  voice  faltered. 
Carlton  bowed  assent,  for  his  heart  was  too  full 


90  fHE    FATAL    CHOICE 

for  words.  "  I  rejoice,"  continued  Beaufort,  "  to 
consign  her  to  the  care  of  one  so  worthy.  She 
told  nic  once,  you  liad  been  as  a  brother  to  her, 
from  her  childhood;  —  be  a  brother  still,  anJ 
may  success  crown  your  benevolent  erforts." 
He  then  abruptly  departed,  leaving  Carlton 
standiniT  like  a  statue. 

We  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  over- 
whelming tide  of  memory  and  thought  which 
swept  over  his  soul  in  those  few  brief  moments. 
At  length,  clasping  his  hands,  and  looking  up- 
ward, he  whispered,  "  Thou  God  of  the  immortal 
spirit,  who  alone  canst  restore  it  to  harmony  and 
peace,  bless  my  efforts ;  for,  without  thy  blessing, 
they  will  avail  nothing."   . 

***** 

It  is  a  winter  evening,  and,  in  a  neat,  but 
plainly-furnished  parlour.  Doctor  Carlton  is  seat- 
ed before  a  cheerful  gmte,  deeply  engaged  in 
writing.  On  one  side  is  a  fair-haired,  blue-eyed 
woman,  still  young,  but  with  that  look  of  thou-Tht- 
fu1  tenderness,  which  tells,  at  once,  that  she  is 
a  A>ife  and  a  nioiher.  While  busily  plying  her 
needle,  her  eyes  occasionally  wander  from  her 
work,  to  dwell,  for  a  moment,  now  on  a  rosy 
infant,  asleep  hi  the  cradle  by  her  side,  and  now 
with  a  glance  of  deep  and  pure  affection  on  th» 


THE    FATAL    CHOICE.  91 

benignant  countenance  of  her  husband.  On  the 
other  side,  is  a  female,  pale  and  thin,  but  with 
the  traces  of  beauty  on  her  wasted  face.  Her 
expression  is  sad,  but  subdued  and  calm.  She 
is  reading  a  worn  volume,  whose  contents  seem 
to  absorb  her  whole  soul.  Various  emotions  flit 
across  that  speaking  face,  till,  laying  her  finger 
emphatically  on  the  page  she  had  been  reading, 
she  looked  up  with  a  radiant  smile,  saying,  in  a 
low,  sweet  tone,  "  Albert."  It  was  Ellen,  — 
healed,  and  in  her  right  mind.  The  volume  she 
held  was  her  mother's  Bible,  and  her  spirit,  chas- 
'.ened,  humbled,  and  peaceful,  was  sitting  "  at  the 
feet  of  Jesus."  "  Albert,"  she  repeated,  as  he 
looked  silently,  but  with  deep  emotion,  on  the 
heavenly  serenity  that  beamed  from  her  tranquil 
eye,  "  here  is  a  passage  I  have  never  seen 
before.  '  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and 
are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.  Take 
my  yoke  upon  you  and  learn  of  me,  for  I  am 
meek  and  lowly  in  heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  to 
your  souls.''  How  beautiful,  how  cheering,  how 
full  of  hope  ! "  she  added,  in  a  low  voice,  while  a 
tear  stole  silently  down  her  cheek.  "  It  is  all  1 
want,  —  rest  —  not  for  the  body  merely,  — • 
though  how  sweet  is  rest  to  the  weary  frame  ; 
but  this  is  rest  to  the  soul.     How  sweet  the  assur 


92  THE    FATAL    CHOICE. 

arce  to  my  weary,  tempest-tost  spirit.  Albert 
you  have  been  the  physician,  not  of  my  body 
merely,  but  of  my  immortal  soul.  You  have  led 
me  to  the  Heavenly  Physician,  and  applied  the 
Balm  of  Gilead  to  my  wounded  heart.  You  have 
pointed  me  to  him  who  laid  down  his  life  for  his 
friends,  and  left,  as  his  last  legacy,  peace,  —  his 
own  peace,  not  such  as  the  world  gives,  but  a 
peace  deep  and  unbroken,  reaching  beyond  timo 
and  constituting  the  bliss  of  eternity." 


LIFE. 

A  CL»  t>  o'ershades  each  human  let 
A  mist  enwiaps  each  path  of  pain ; 
To  solve  tlie  mystery  of  life, 
Let  each  wild  dreamer  seek  in  vain* 
A  fitful,  fleetirij^  joy  we  grasp, 
A  lightning  glance,  a  meteor  fiame, 
We  toil  for  gold,  we  strive  for  power, 
We  sigh  for  love,  we  reverence  fame. 

And  some  in  Pleasure's  mazes  tread  • 
But  all  m  vain  each  human  art; 
The  poison  lingers  in  each  cup, 
The  skeleton  in  every  heart ! 
Some  mocking  liglit  allures  our  steps 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  in  giddy  dance  ; 
Forward  we  press,  the  phantom  flies, 
Receding  still  as  we  advance. 

Wearied  and  worn,  we  pause  awhile, 
Then  watch  some  new  illusion's  glare; 
Again  we  hope,  again  we  grieve, 
Our  spectre  glory  melts  in  atr ! 
Some,  like  the  far-famed  queen  of  old, 
Their  pearly  treasures  offer  up. 
And  joys,  which  should  a  lifetime  fill. 
Are  quaffed  in  one  delicious  cup  ; 


94  LIFE, 

Life  has  no  further  boon  to  give, 
In  apathy  their  days  glide  by, 
Their  tideless  hearts,  and  aspect  calm, 
Coldly  each  turn  of  fate  defy  ; 
Some  wretched  hearts  th£'ir  anguish  veil, 
Their  fierce  despair  they  fain  would  liide, 
Karh  vanished  hope,  and  dream  conceal. 
Beneath  the  iron  mask  of  pride. 

A  cloud  o'ershades  each  mortal's  lot, 
A  mist  ensiirines  each  path  of  pa'.u  ; 
To  solve  the  mystery  of  life, 

et  each  wild  dreamer  seek  in  vain  , 
Ever  a  firm,  unwavering  trust 
In  the  most  High's  divine  liehest 
The  only  steadfast  rock  is  found, 


On  which  our  trembling  hearts  to  rest 


C   A 


i 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE. 


The  picture  represents  the  beautiful  La  Valli^-re,  ir  her 
retirement  at  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites;  and  under  it 
are  inscribed  the  words  once  uttered  by  her  in  reply  to  the 
interrogatory  of  a  friend, —  "  A'o<  happy,  but  cmitent." 


BY   MRS.   WIIITMAlf. 

How  calmly  beautiful 
The  pencilled  scene!      It  is  the  evening  hour, — 
The  golden  close  of  an  autumnal  day. 
Seen  through  yon  time-worn  arch,  the  parting  sun 
Res».s  like  a  weary  hunter  on  the  brow 
Of  the  far  western  hills,  —  and  there  lingering, 
To  mark  the  silent  flight  of  his  last  arrow 
Through  the  liquid  air. 

Through  the  tall  Gothic  casement  pours  a  flood 
Of  golden  glory,  streaming  o'er  the  walls, 
The  marble  pavement,  and  the  vaulted  roof; 
While  in  the  far-perspective  waving  woods. 
Vineyards,  and  fields,  and  trellised  cottages 
Are  brightly  tinged  with  the  rich  sunset  glow, 
And  autumn  casts  her  mellow  tints  o'er  all, 
Deepening  the  beavity  of  the  quiet  scene. 


li 


I 


n8  LI\ES  SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE 

The  hour,  the  season,  breathe  of  calm  decay, 
Of  life's  brief  splendor  and  approaching  gloom, 
Anil  touchingly  accord  with  that  sweet  form 
Oi  fading  lovelmcss,  so  calm  and  pale. 
It  seemelh  some  fair  statue  there  enshrined , 
Tlie  brow  of  marble  beauty,  raised  to  heaven, 
Is  smooth  and  peaceful  as  the  unclouded  front 
Of  sleeping  innocence  ;  yet  sober  thought. 
Full  of  sweet  sadness,  there  asserts  her  reign, 
While  the  dark  eye,  once  eloquent  of  lovo, 
And  fraught  with  human  sympathies,  now  seems 
But  the  calm  mirror  of  tiiat  tranquil  heaven 
On  which  its  rapt  gaze  lingers. 

Did  st  thou  find, 
Sweet  sufferer,  within  those  hallowed  walls, 
Tliat  heavenly  peace  which  the  world  cannot  give  i 
And  didst  thou,  through  thy  solitary  hours. 
Feel  that  support  which  those  can  never  know 
Who  clinif  to  broken  reeds,  and  bow  before 
The  self-created  idols  of  the  heart? 
Did  thy  fond  fancy  never  lead  thee  back 
To  vanished  hours,  and  pleasures  long  gone  by  j  — 
Nor  memory  lingt-r  round  those  dazzling  halls 
Of  regal  splendor,  where  thy  dawning  charms, 
Thy  dreamlike  beauty,  and  unconscious  grace 
Enthralled  a  monarch's  heart,  and  shone  awhile 
The  light  of  courts,  a  nation's  cynosure  .•* 

Could  that  fond  heart 
Its  '»arly  dream  forget,  —  its  dream  of  love .' 
Ah    when  did  woman  e'er  that  dream  forget? 


UNES    SUGGESTED    BY    A    PICTURE         97 

Man's  love  lives  but  with  hope  ;  while  woman's  heart 

Still  echoes  to  the  music  of  the  past ;  — 

And  never  heart  was  formed  more  prone  than  thine 

To  the  impulsive,  trustful  tenderness 

Of  innocence  and  youth;  —  its  thrilling  chorda 

Responded  to  the  burning  breath  of  love, 

With  all  the  sweet,  wild,  mournful  harmonv 

Which  passion  wakens  in  the  youthful  breast, 

Ere  the  rude  hand  of  stern  reality, 

And  all  the  earth-born  interests  of  life, 

Have  marred  its  music,  and  its  chords  unstrung ! 

Ay,  thou  hast  loved  as  woman  only  loves,— 
A  love  all  sacrifice  and  sullering ;  a  star 
That  gathers  lustie  from  the  gloom  of  night  J 
A  martyr's  fond  Idolatry ,  a  faith 
Baptized  m  tears,  to  sorrow  consecrate 
And  still  one  liquid  gem,  unmarked  before, 
Seems  trembling  on  that  pale  and  faded  cheek  ; 
As  if  some  dream  of  other  days  had  thrown 
-A  passing  shadow  o'er  thy  thoughts,  and  dimmed 
Heaven's  image,  pictured  on  their  peaceful  stream. 
Yet  all  seems  tranquil  now,  and  that  warm  trace 
Of  recent  sorrow  lends  a  touching  charm 
To  the  deep  sanctity  and  holy  rest 
That  breathe  o'er  all  thy  beauty,  and  bespeak 
A  heart  resigned,  —  ^^  not  happy,  hut  content  ;'  — 
A  hi.'art,  that,  like  the  Dove,  long  soujfht  its  rest 
III  vain  o'er  earth's  wide  waters, —  till,  at  last. 
Wearied  and  faint,  it  wings  its  homeward  way. 
And  folds  its  pinions  in  the  uik  ol  peace. 
7 


STANZAS    FOR   MUSIC. 

BY  THJE  AUTHOR   OF  "  MIRIAM." 

Thou  lonely  stream  !  thou  lonely  stream! 
Beneath  the  twiUytht's  dying  gleam, 
Art  thou,  when  busy  fuct  are  gone, 
Still  flowing  on,  still  flowing  on? 
Thy  murmurinfr  song 
Dost  thou  prolong 
Beneath  the  awful  midnight  skies, 
While  'mid  the  trees 
The  folded  breeze 
In  slumber  lies,  —  m  slumber  lies  .•* 

Yes !  murmuring  stream !  and  far  away 
The  dweher  on  tny  banks  must  stray  ; 
But  thou  wilt  heed  not  who  in  gone, 
Still  flowing  on,  —  still  flowing  on: 
But  oil'  mine  ear 
Those  murmurs  dear 
In  distant  lands  shall  ne'er  forget « 
Though  1  depart 
Mine  achmg  heart 
Shall  hear  thee  yet,  —  shall  hear  tlice  yel ' 


STANZAS    FOR    MUSIC  99 

And  shall  my  stream  of  life  then  cease, 
Lost  in  tlie  shadowy  Land  of  Peace, 
While  thou  through  forest,  de!I,  and  lawn, 
Art  flowing  on, — still  flowing  on? 
Where  young  trees  cast 
Their  shadows  fast, 
Beside  thee  dies  the  aged  pine. 
And  the  whole  span 
Of  pilgrim  man 
U  less  than  thine,  —  is  less  than  Uuae  t 


PIIRENOLOGICAL  SPECULATIONS. 

BT   MRS.    SEBA    SMITH. 

Gentle  reader,  art  thou  a  Phrenologist  ?  If 
so,  we  Will  indulge  in  a  few  harmless  lucubra- 
tions. 

We  will,  if  you  please,  enter  this  place  of 
public  resort,  because,  if  I  mistake  not,  there  is 
a  .school  kept  hard  by,  and  soon  the  door  wil. 
fly  open,  and  out  will  burst  a  little  host  of  future 
legislators,  embryo  judges,  incipient  divines,  and 
unfledged  orators  and  statesmen. 

Stand  one  side.  Hurrah!  —  out  they  come. 
Now  mark  ;  did  you  ever  see  such  a  set  of 
heads .'  What  facial  angles  !  what  breadth, 
height,  and  compass  of  brain !  Observe  their 
temperaments  too.  None  of  your  little,  puny, 
pale-faced  children  of  the  aristocracy,  looking 
like  the  relics  of  humanity  ;  but  firm,  athletic, 
vigorous  young  republicans,  half  able,  even 
now,  to  cope  with  the  venerable  and  musty 
sticklers  for  preeminence,  and  ancient  usages 
in   the   tottering   fabrics  of  other  lands.     Mark 


>  n 


PHRENOLOGICAL    SPEC      LATIONS.       101 

the  clear,  brilliant  eye  looking  ^s  if  a  very 
volcano  of  thought  and  passion  were  slumber- 
ing beneath.  Address  them,  and  ten  to  one, 
some  sturdy  young  democrat  will  read  you  a 
lecture  upon  the  rights  and  privileges  of  boyhood, 
worthy  of  a  Jefferson. 

Does  any  one  believe  the  mothers  of  boys  like 
these,  are  weak,  nervous,  unthinking  fashiona- 
bles .?  No,  it  is  contrary  to  the  very  laws  of  our 
being.  They  are  strong-minded,  strong-hearted, 
rational  matrons,  worthy  to  be  the  countrywomen 
of  Mary,  the  mother  of  Washington,  —  worthy  to 
be  called  American  wives,  American  mothers. 
Of  the  fathers  we  will  say  nothing  now.  It  is 
the  mother  that  stamps  the  character  of  the 
future  man.  She  gives  the  boy  the  bias  to  good 
or  ill,* — makes  him  the  hero,  philosopher,  or 
statesman.  It  is  she  who  makes  him  the  upright, 
virtuous  citizen,  the  supporter  of  the  laws  of  his 
country,  and  the  upholder  of  its  institutions,  or 
the  degraded  and  depraved  outcast,  on  whom 
the  slern  arm  of  justice  executes  her  severest 
penalties. 

She  may  be  unconscious  of  all  this,  but  it  » 
no  less  the  fact.  Her  child  will  inherit  hers, 
rather  than  its  father's  intellectual  organization  ; 
and  it  is  the  tones  of  her  voice,  Jier  teachings 


102  pukjLXological  speculations. 

by  its  infant  bed,  her  language  and  daily  demean- 
or, that  are  stamping  its  character,  and  making 
the  hereafter  good  or  bad  man.  If  she  knows 
all  tliis,  and  is  faithless  to  her  trust,  who  shall 
depict  the  guilt  and  woe  that  may  ensue  }  Na- 
ture, as  well  as  religion,  cry  shame  upon  such 
a  mother. 

But  we  are  straying.  Let  us  stand  by  in  this 
recess,  and  mark  the  boys  as  they  divide  them- 
selves into  groups.  Do  you  see  that  boy  in  the 
centre  of  half  a  dozen  others,  all  of  whom  are 
talking  with  great  vehemence,  while  he  is  en- 
tirely calm  }  There,  I  am  glad  of  that,  he  has 
taken  off  his  hat,  and  we  can  see  his  head  dis- 
tinctly. What  a  calm,  intellectual  brow  !  He  is 
rather  pale  too,  —  a  young  student.  But  mark 
the  preponderance  of  the  intellectual  over  the 
animal  region.  lie  will  through  life  sway  the 
intellects,  but  never  the  passions  of  men.  He 
speaks  now,  and  his  voice  is  low,  and  very 
sweet ;  the  boys  are  perfectly  quiet  about  him. 
There  has  been  some  juvenile  litigation  amongst 
them,  and  they  have  chosen  him  umpire  ;  and 
they  will  abide  by  his  decision  too. 

He  has  given  his  award  now,  and,  I  dare  say, 
it  is  worthy  of  a  Hale.  You  see  the  boys  are 
perfectly   satisfied    with    the    propriety    of   hia 


PHRENOLOGICAL    SPECULATIONS        103 

decision,  and  are  dispei-sing.  That  boy,  I  doubt 
not,  will  one  day  sit  in  the  place,  once  occupied 
by  Chief  Justice  Marshall,  unless  he  be  over- 
taxed in  youth,  and  thus  fall  a  victim  to  his 
precocity. 

There  comes  a  young  leader,  swinging  his 
cap,  and  hurrahing  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  fol- 
lowed by  a  score  of  boys,  all  as  eager  as  himself, 
about  to  engage,  I  warrant,  in  some  trial  of 
strength  or  skill.  You  see  those  boys  are  all 
smart,  all  active,  but  yet  how  naturally  they 
move  off  in  the  Avake  of  that  young  champion. 
What  a  Napoleon  head  is  there !  What  power 
in  the  animal  region  !  and  how  nobly  balanced 
by  the  broad,  intellectual  forehead !  That  boy  is 
made  to  command  armies,  and  to  sway  popular 
assemblies.  He  will  rule,  let  him  be  where  he 
will.  People  will  bow  before  him  as  by  an 
instinct  they  cannot  resist. 

What  are  those  boys  collecting  about  that  rich, 
crusty  old  gentleman's  door-way  for  ?  They  are 
in  close  consultation,  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  he 
ha«  m  )re  than  once  rated  them  soundly  for  mak- 
ing so  much  noise  about  his  premises.     Hurrah! 

there  it  goes,  three  cheers  for  Mr. ,  and  they 

are  off  in  a  gifly.  Out  comes  the  old  gentleman, 
his  face  red  with  wrath,  shaking  his  head,  and 


104  FHUENOLOGICAL    SPECLLATIONS. 

denouncing  vengeance  upon  every  soul  of  them 
He  looks  up  and  down  the  street,  —  not  a  boy  is 
to  be  seen.  There,  a  roguish,  chuckling  face  has 
just -peered  round  the  corner,  and  is  off  like  a 
flash.  He  gives  chase.  The  boys  have  been 
round  the  square,  and,  in  the  absence  of  the 
owner  have  repeated  the  cheers  at  his  door,  and 
now  turn  up  another  avenue.  They  will  not 
dare  repeat  the  experiment,  and  the  irritated,  baf- 
fled old  man  goes  in,  breathless  and  mortified, 
ruminating  plans  of  revenge. 

Here  is  a  group  of  miniature  politicians,  deep 
m  the  mysteries  of  party.  They  gesticulate  as 
much  as  their  fathers,  and  are  ten  times  more  in 
earnest.  They  are  of  opposite  parties  too,  and 
some  heat  has  been  elicited,  for  combativeness 
is  pretty  actively  excited.  Hard  names  have 
been  exchanged,  and  both  leaders  (you  can 
easily  distinguish  them)  are  quite  red  in  the 
face.  Yes  there  are  blows,  and  their  voices 
grow  loud.  "  Call  me  Tory,  will  you  ?  I  won't 
stand  that,  —  the  Tories  helped  the  British,  and 
were  against  our  independence."  "  Then  don'l 
call  me  Hartford  Conventioner,  —  nobody  shall 
do  that." 

There,  will  not  those  boys  understand  the  prin- 
ciples  of  our   government  ?    Will   they   not   al 


PHRENOLOGICAL  SPECULATIONS.   lOJ. 

eome  day  be  nobly  capable  of  exorcising  the 
elective  francriise  ?  Suppose  they  be  a  liille 
intemperate  in  their  discussions,  it  is  infinitely 
better  than  the  dull,  cold  apathy  of  a  despotism. 

Our  boys  have  a  most  sovereign  contempt 
for  wliat  we  call  aristocracy.  Even  the  boys  of 
the  silly  things  in  our  land,  who  try  to  affect  the 
airs  of  that  class,  will  do  nothing  of  themselves 
to  sustain  such  pretensions,  except  as  it  is  drilled 
into  them  by  perpetual  talking  and  coercion. 
The  boy  has  everywhere  a  glorious  contempt 
for  caste.  He  naturally  chooses  the  brightest 
and  smartest  boys  for  companions,  let  them  be 
found  where  they  may. 

I  recollect  in  a  neighbouring  city  the  boys 
at  one  time  were  divided  into  two  classes,  dis- 
tinguished by  the  names  of  the  "  upper-en'ders," 
and  "  lower-enders,"  and  much  bickering  and 
ill-blood  ensued.  The  uppcr-enders  were  the 
sons  of  the  wealthier  citizens,  and  the  lower- 
enders,  of  the  middling  class. 

Never  did  one  boy  meet  another  of  the  op- 
posite faction  without  bristling  up  and  looking 
defiance,  or  skulking  to  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  according  to  the  strength  of  his  nerves 
afTe,  &c      Things    remained    in    this    condit'cn 


lOG  PHUENOLOGICAI,    SPECULATIOAS. 

apparently,  for  some  time  ;  though  a  close  ob 
server  might  have  detected  symptoms  indicative 
of  an  approaching  crisis.  The  ower-encJers 
beg-m  to  bandy  contemptuous  terms  ;  sometimes 
"stumped"  the  upper-enders  to  fight,  —  talked 
of  gloves,  soft  hands,  and  white  faces.  The 
upper-enders  grew  exasperated,  tried  to  look 
fierce,  and  at  length,  screwing  then*  courage  to 
the  sticking-point,  actually  challenged  their  op 
ponents  to  combat.  The  call  was  obeyed  with 
alacrity.  Never  did  mail-clad  champions  of  the 
olden  time  thirst  more  eagerly  to  distinguish 
themselves  in  military  prowess,  than  did  these 
doughty  heroes  of  a  dozen  years,  to  signalize 
themselves  in  the  war  of  the  upper-enders  and 
lowcr-cnders. 

It  was  a  bright  moonlight  evening.  The 
elements  were  hushed,  unconscious  of  the  great 
destinies  about  to  be  decided,  or  else  breathless 
wiih  expectation.  A  certain  brother  of  mine, 
a  youthful  Mars,  having  enjoined  silence,  divulg- 
ed the  precious  secret.  1  was  at  that  time  too 
much  an  admirer  of  martial  achievements  to 
betray  him,  and  he  departed  with  many  and  sage 
injunctions  to  "  be  careful,"  "not  to  get  hurt," 
&ic.     About  eleven  o'clock  he  returned  thorougit- 


PHRENOLOGICAL  SPECULATIONS.        107 

ly  bespotted  and  betorn  ;  but  what  was  all  that 
and  a  few  bruises  into  the  bargain,  when  his 
party  had  been  victorious!  The  lower-ender? 
had  beaten  the  upper-enders,  and  driven  them 
into  yards  and  enclosures,  whence  they  dared 
not  show  a  head;  and  they  never,  from  that  day 
forth,  presumed  to  turn  up  a  nose  at  the  lower- 
enders.     Thus  ended  the  war. 

All  this  is  boyhood,  you  say ;  ay,  and  so  it 
is  ;  but  it  is  American  boyhood.  Did  you  ever 
think  of  the  thing  before  ?  Did  you  ever  think 
of  the  difference  of  boyhood  in  our  own  coun- 
try, and  that  of  every  other  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  ?  Did  you  ever  think  of  the  contrast  in 
America  and  England  even  ?  Here  we  have 
no  aristocracy,  no  privileged  orders,  no  laws  of 
primogeniture ;  and  boyhood,  in  the  mass,  must 
be  altocether  a  different  affair  in  the  mother 
country,  from  what  it  is  with  us  ;  and  it  is  too 
obviously  so  under  other  governments  to  admit 
of  even  a  comparison. 

Our  boys  will  not  tamely  submit  to  usurpa- 
tion, to  airs  of  superiority  ;  they  are  keen  observ- 
ers, and  even  keen  thinkers.  They  ask  the 
why  of  every  thing,  and  the  wherefore  must  bo 
rational  indeed,  to  cxchip.  the  reverence  of  these 


108  FHRENOLOGICAI     SPECILATIONS. 

stripling  republican  cavaliers.  They  are  nk»N 
boys  as  our  own  institutions,  and  no  others,  are 
calculated  to  develope.  Their  education  '«  ic 
accordance,  —  the  circumstances  by  which  thej 
are  surrounded  are  likely  to  make  such  boys 
unlike  those  of  any  other  country ;  and  they 
must  be  followed  by  such  men.  And  here  J 
come  to  the  point  phrenologically. 

The  institutions  of  America,  all  of  them,  polit 
ical,  moral,  and  religious,  are,  of  all  others,  bcs. 
calculated  for  the  developemcnt  of  the  highe; 
faculties  of  our  nature ;  and  these  are  of  ihcm 
selves  establishing  among  us  a  cast,  a  type  oj 
head,  which  will  itself  guaranty  the  perpetuity  oJ 
those  institutions. 

We  have  nothing  to  fear  from  foreign  oi 
internal  disorganizers  and  corrupters,  —  for  the 
permanency  of  our  institutions  is  written  upon  thn 
very  brows  of  our  children, —  in  plain,  legible 
characters  upon  the  forehead  of  every  school-boy. 
that,  sauntering,  swings  his  satchel  in  our  streets 
We  need  not  enter  the  legislative  hall,  to  sccV 
for  the  conservative  principle  of  our  govern 
ment ;  it  is  to  be  fi)uiid  everywhere,  in  iho 
vigorous,  manly  outline  of  the  heads  of  our  pro- 
fessional men,  our  artisans,  our  free  voters. 


THE   POLITICIAN   OF   PODUNK. 

Solomon  Waxtend  was  a  sliocmaker  of  Po» 
dunk,  a  small  village  of  Nevv  York,  some  forty 
years  ago.  He  was  an  Englishman  by  birth, 
and  had  come  over  the  water  to  mend  the  insti- 
tutions, as  well  as  the  soles,  of  the  country.  He 
was  a  perfectly  honest  man,  and  of  natural  good 
sense :  but,  having  taken  pretty  large  doses  of 
new  light  from  the  works  of  Tom  Paine  and  the 
French  Revolutionists,  he  became,  like  an  inflated 
balloon,  light-headed,  and  soared  aloft  into  the 
unknown  regions  of  air.  Like  many  of  his  coun- 
trymen brought  up  under  monarchical  institu- 
tions, he  was  slow  in  understanding  the  mysteries 
of  our  political  system  ;  and,  wanting  the  ballast 
of  Yankee  common  sense,  he  nevertheless  thought 
himself  specially  qualified  to  instruct  the  people 
of  Pod  unk  in  eveiy  thing  relating  to  civil  liberty. 

Accordingly  he  held  forth,  at  first,  over  his 
lapstone,  then  at  the  bar-room,  and  finally  at  a 
caucus.  He  had  some  gifts,  and  more  of  the 
grace  of  assurance.  He  set  up  for  a  great  man, 
became    a  candidate  for  representative,  and  was 


110  THE    POLITICIAN    OF    PODUNK. 

triumphantly  elected  a  member  of  the  Gener- 
al Assembly  of  New  York.  With  all  the  spint 
of  a  true  reformer,  he  set  forth  for  Albany,  to 
discharge  "the  Kieh  functions  of  his  official  state. 
[Je  went.  He  rose  to  make  a  speech.  His  voice 
failed,  his  knees  tottered,  he  became  silent ;  ho 
sat  down.  The  whole  affair  was  duly  reported  in 
the  papers.  It  was  read  at  the  alehouse  in  Po- 
dunk ! 

Solomon  Waxtend  came  back  an  altered  man. 
He  went  away  round,  ruddy,  and  self-sufficient ;  he 
returned  lean,  sullen,  and  subdued.  He  shut  him- 
self up  for  a  month,  and  nothing  was  heard  in 
his  house  by  the  neighbours,  save  the  vigorous 
hammer  upon  the  lapstone.  At  length,  one  even- 
ing, he  appeared  at  the  village  inn.  It  was  a  sort 
of  holiday  eve,  and  many  of  his  partisans  were 
there.  They  looked  at  Solomon,  as  if  they  saw 
a  ghost ;  but  he  had  that  calmness  of  counte- 
nance which  betokens  a  mind  made  up.  His 
late  friends  crowded  round  him ;  but  Salomon, 
waving  his  hand,  bade  them  sit  down.  Havmg 
done  this,  he  spoke  as  follows. 

"  I  trust  I  am  duly  sensible,  my  friends,  of  the 
honor  you  intended  me,  in  sending  me  to  the 
Assembly.  If  1  have  disgraced  you,  it  has,  at 
least,  been  a  lesson  to  me.     I  find,  that  in  order 


THE    POLITICIAN    OF    PODUNK  111 

to  understand  j^our  institutions,  and  to  cope 
with  your  Yankee  people,  it  is  necessary,  like 
them,  to  live  long  in  the  country,  and  to  study  its 
history,  and  become  familiar  with  its  political  sys- 
tem. I  find  that  an  Englishman,  with  his  Tory 
notions,  his  hereditary  love  of  monarchy,  his 
loyalty,  woven  in  with  his  first  lessons  of  life,  is 
like  a  •  fish  out  of  water '  in  one  of  your  demo- 
cratic assemblies.  I  have,  therefore,  only  one 
thing  to  say  and  that  will  be  told  in  the  way 
of  a  story, 

"  Some  people,  digging  in  a  sandbank  by  the 
seaside,  in  search  of  Kid's  money,  came  to  a 
chest,  with  the  following  inscription,  — '  Take  me 
up,  and  I  will  tell  you  more  ! '  This  gave  them 
fresh  courage,  and  they  continued  their  efforts. 
At  length  they  dug  up  the  chest,  and  on  the  bot- 
tom, they  found  the  following  inscriptioji,  — '  Lay 
vie  doion  as  I  vms  lej'ore.''  " 

Having  told  this  story,  the  cobler  departed 
leaving  his  hearers  to  apply  the  obvious  hint  con* 
veyed  by  the  legend. 


THE  THOUGHTS  OF  THE  DUMB. 

BY   J.   H.   CLINCH 

From   words  we  gain   ideas; — there  are  some, 
Alas  I  whose  only  knowledge  rests  in  words, 
Tlieir  wisdom  empty  wind.     How  different 
The    shad'  wy    thoughts   which    wander    through    suca 

minds, 
From  those  ideal  pictures,  fresh  and  warm 
And  well  defined,  which  crowd  the  mental  sight 
Of  the  deaf  mute.  —  Words  are  unknown  to  liini, — 
His  thoughts  are  things,  —  his  logic  and  his  chain 
Of  metaphysical  deductions,  —  all 
Pass  through  his  brain  in  bright  depicted  facts, 
The  fresh  reflections  in  mind's  mirror  clear 
Of  Art's  achievements  or  of  Nature's  works. 

One,  to  whom  Heaven,  in  wisdom  infinite, 
But  to  our  sense  inscrutable,  had  locked 
The  gates  of  Sound  and  Speech,  was  asked  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  "  fursiveness.'' 

Pausing  then 
A  moment,  with  the  eye  of  memory 
" 'I'o  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Fur  lit'ing  thoughts,  he  seized  tlie  ready   pen 
And  wrote, —  The  odor  lohich  the  Irmnplcd  Jloicer 
Gives  out  to  bless  the  foot  which  crushes  it ' 


I 


i 


■'!,•_ 


■  ..*.*.•    


SEA    RHYMES. 
RETURN    OF   THE    VICTOR    SHIP 

BY  JAMES   T.   FIELDS. 

She  liung  her  snowy  pinions  wide, 

A  moment  on  tlie  breeze, 
Then  dashed  the  crimson  waves  aside 

And  leapt  the  foaming  seas  ; 
She  swept  a  banner  o'er  the  flood 

That  never  bore  a  stain. 
And  like  a  giant  forth  she  stood 

As  if  to  dare  the  main. 

Away !  awny  !  ye  gallant  so\ils, 

With  swelling  hearts  ye  fly  j 
In  clouds  of  fire  your  thunder  rolls 

Its  white  smoke  on  the  sky,  — 
I  hear.  1  hear,  the  ringing  ['cal. 

Your  jiashing  arms  I  see; 
Away  1  away  I   what  ji)y  to  feel 

The  ti-rill  of  victory  ! 
IJehinci  ye  moans  the  battlt*-ery^ 
Of  many  a  foeman  doomed  to  die, 
Above  ye  float  the  stripes  aivd  stars 
Amid  a  nnt  ion's  loud  huzzas, 
While  glory's  boon,  —  proud  honor's  fame, 
Encircles  each  exulting  name  ! 
8 


The  interesting  and  picturesque  fact,  fhftt  you  can  say^  In 
all  tb«>  jtoberncss  aad  gravity  of  prose,  that  you  leaJ'y  "iom- 
posed  "  stanzas  "  on  the  top  of  a  "  heaven-kissing  "  mountain, 
—  or  on  some  capital  quarter-deck  "  at  sea,"  is  something  loo 
valuable,  withal,  to  pass  over  with  a  poor  indifference.  The 
chance  is,  that  matter  thus  brought  to  light  might  do  some- 
thing extra  towards  advancing  the  •'  good  and  true  "  in  poetry. 
So  would  have  judged  Swedenbnrg,  at  least.  For  my  own 
part,  I  am  so  certain,  with  reference  to  the  article  that  follows, 
that  enough  to  "  swear  by  "  was  actually  done,  in  pencil,  on 
the  very  crown-rock  of  the  mountain  sung  of,  that  I  feel  no 
disturbance  of  conscience  in  telling  about  it  here,  under  the 
title  of 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  SUMMIT 
OF  MOUNT  HOLYOKE. 

I. 

Great  God!  tiiy  works  oppress  me.     As  1  gaz» 
Upon  thy  beautiful  crcalinii,  I  but  feel 
My  frailty  and  my  lueamicss.  —  I  look  down 
On  a  world  niap()0(i  beneath  nie,  like  tJie  \\7> 
Of  forms  upon  llie  firmament,  wlieii  c.ouds 
Are  marshalled  there,  amid  a  shadowy  light 
Tiiat  touches  them  with  hues  beyond  ovir  dreams' 
1  look  down  with  a  fearfulness, —  I  hear 
A  voice,  as  of  a  choir,  bursting  in  song 
Of  gratitude  and  glory  to  the  J'owcr 


LINES  WRITTEN  OiN  M  jUNT  HOLYOKE.  115 

Tliat  fashioned  such  immensity.     1  hear 

An  anthem  rolling  to  the  Architect  • 

Of  such  a  boundless  beauty.     It  comes  not 

From  some  towered  city,  where  the  booming  bells 

Send  up  faint  music  through  its  cloudy  pall 

It  comes  not  from  one  land  amid  its  joy, 

And  gladness  of  its  harvest,  and  its  flowers, — 

Not  from  oaie  sounding  river,  in  its  flow 

To  the  great  flood  that  bosoms  it, —  nor  yet 

from  one  upheaving  ocean,  —  but  it  comes 

from  all  their  voices,  mingling  in  this  blue 

And  far  vault  of  the  mighty  universe ! 


11. 


My  vision  dims,  with  wonder !  —  I  look  in 

Upon  the  panorama  of  my  soul. 

And  hear  a  whisper  from  deep  places,  full 

Of  a  subdued  devotion,  telling  me. 

That  man,  though  but  an  atom  glimmering  through 

This  sea  of  things  incompreliensib'e, 

Yet  ^.ooms  above  the  mountains  in  his  mind, 

And  holds  great  conversation  with  the  stars  ! 

And  when  he  bends  him  to  the  checkered  earth 

On  its  vast  altar-peaks,  —  the  dreamy  world. 

That,  like  a  canvass  touched  by  his  own  hand, 

Seems  but  a  painted  pastime  of  the  power 

Of  the  far  God  that  walks  above  the  clouds. 

And  the  broad  blue  they  curtain,  he  is  touched 

With  some  proud  intimation; — and  his  brow, 

Illuniinate  with  a  proud  hope,  and  full 

Of  the  unfathomed  mystery  within, 


116         LINES  WRITTEN  ON  MOUNT  HOLYOKE. 

Jjifta  to  the  high  home  of  his  destiny ; 

Then  hows  on  eartli's  bald  pinnacles,  in  prayer 


III. 


Silence  and  prayer,  —  upon  the  mountain  tower ! 
\Vhere  clouds  rest  on  their  passage  tlirough  Ihe  skf 
And  its  briglit  orbs  seem  nearer !  —  wliere  the  wind 
Sweeps,  with  a  lioUow  sound,  like  that  of  waves 
Or  countless  organs  mingling,  and  the  storm 
Peals  with  a  fierce  music  !     O,  if  here, 
On  these  unshadowed  places  of  the  world, 
Where  the  earth  looks  tlie  dim  and  dwarfish  thin» 
That  well  williin  the  iiollow  of  his  h.ind. 
Who  called  it  from  immensity,  might  swing, — 
If  here,  where  man,  and  all  his  wurks  seem  tombed 
In  the  dark  forest  that  embosoms  all,  — 
Where  of  his  triumph  voice  no  echo  comes. 
And  the  great  cannon's  call  scarce  undulates, — 
If  here  he  bow  not,  as  a  creature  struck 
Down  to  the  dust  he  tends  to,  aud  outpour 
In  that  confession,  sanctified  by  tears. 
That  ever  mark  the  noblest  penitence, — 
The  story  of  his  consciousness,  —  and  ask 
For  mercy,  with  a  deep  siiame  on  his  iieart, 
Siiading  it  as  some  jjrcat  incubus,  —  if  3'et 
He  prate  of  power,  and  dream  of  glory  here,-— 
Wrap   him   in    pride,  and  curl   tin:  paling  lip, 
That  niusi  to-morrow  parley  with  the   worm,— 
Then  let  him  pass,  —  as  but  a  breathing  thing 
Gud's  glories  ciinnot  reach,  —  nor  beauties  bow 
A  creature  with  whose  soul  companionship 


I 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  MOUNT  HOI  YOKE.  11' 

Must  merge  in  misery,  —  a  mass  of  earth. 

That  seems  not  formed  to  live,  —  yet  dreads  to  die 


IV. 


Silence  and  prayer!  —  O  tell  me,  ye  who  come 

As  pilg-ims  to  these  towers,  —  these  cloudy  homes 

Where  Nature  casts  her  banners  to  the  sky, 

Above  the  bravest  battlements  of  man, 

And  tells  tiie  story  of  her  lordliness 

In  her  unfading  oak  and  waving  pine, 

That  count  the  passing  centuries  from  their  crag, 

Dare  the  red  bolt,  —  and  laugh  above  the  storm,— 

O  tell  me,  —  can  ye  come  here,  and  bow  down 

Where  the  world  dwindles  'neath  ye,  like  a  point, 

Nor  feel  its  passions  lessen  ?     Can  ye  hear 

The  voice  of  cities,  and  the  waving  fields. 

Sweep  far  beneath  ye,  like  the  sound  of  winds. 

Nor  feel  how  lesser  than  a  child's  it  is? 

Can  ye  look  down  upon  the  ocean  sea. 

Nor  feel  how  infant-handed  are  its  waves 

When  storms  are  at  their  bravest,  to  the  waves 

That  mingle  in  their  battles  of  the  sky, 

When  the  tornado  rides  its  tempest-car. 

And  whirlwinds  gather  at  its  thousand  wheels, 

And  the  red  thunder  leaps  from  spire  to  spire 

Of  clouds  that  point  the  heavens  like  citadels, 

And  blacken  tlie  horizon  like  a  veil? 


O  say,  —  can  ye  bow  here,  nor  feel  how  far 

Ye  are  from  eartb ,  —  and  yet  how  near  to  heaven  f 


118         LINES  WRITTEN  OX  MOUNT  HOLYOKE. 

Can  ye,  on  summits  where  ye  almost  hear 

The  clouds  swoop  by  ye  on  their  passage,  gaze 

On  this  mosaic  of  tlie  land  and  sea, 

Or  the  unfathomed  blue,  nor  feci  deep  tears 

Breaking  within  ye,  as  from  founU  that  stir 

Only  to  One  great  voice  ?     Can  ye  bow  down 

Without  that  unheard  utterance  of  pray«.f, 

Wiiich  the  heart  wliispers,  when  the  things  of  GoB 

Bend  it  to  silence  that  is  eloquence  ? 


A  SKETCH  FROM  LIFE. 

BT  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  WEALTH  AND  FASHION." 

How  many  essays  have  been  written  on  that 
simple  word,  happiness^  from  the  times  poste- 
rior to  Miss  Hannah  More's  charming  poem, 
entitled,  "  Search  after  Happiness,"  to  the  present 
day;  when  it  seems  to  be  conceded,  that  happi- 
ness is  a  celestial  resident,  who  has  no  home 
on  earth,  and  whose  "  visits  are  few  and  far 
between " ;  that  she  only  comes  now  and  th'^n 
.to  say,  that  we  must  not  expect  to  be  intimately 
acquainted  with  her  till  we  seek  her  in  her  own 
region  of  life  and  glory,  where  she  dwells  in 
the  presence  of  the  Creator. 

Let  us  then  cease  to  repine  that  she  so  con- 
stantly eludes  our  pursuit ;  and  take  the  best 
substitutes  we  can  find,  cheerfulness  and  con- 
tentment, 

It  wou.d  be  a   utilitarian  service,  not  unwor- 
thy the    projects    of   the  present  day,  to  prove 
that  these  qualities  are  within  the  reach  of  all , 
but  I  am  not  sanguine  enough  of  success  to  a' 


120  A  SKETCH  FROM  LIFE. 

tempt  it.  An  habitual  discipline  of  mind,  howev- 
er, will  secure  a  comfortable  portion  of  conlent- 
ment,  and  a  conscience  at  peace  with  itself  will 
conjure  up  its  partner,  cheerfulness  ;  it  must  be 
confessed,  nevertheless,  that  conscience  is  not  apt 
to  be  perfectly  at  peace  with  itself;  and,  tlie 
higher  the  standard,  the  less  there  is  of  self- 
complacency. 

There  is  one  great  truth  connected  with  this 
subject,  which  illustrates  most  powerfully  the 
goodness  of  God.  Contentment  is  not  oftener 
the  portion  of  the  rich,  than  of  the  poor  ,  neither 
does  it  ally  itself  to  rank,  or  intellect.  One  of 
the  most  contented  people  I  ever  heard  of.  was 
one  among  the  least  gifted.  She  was  uncouth 
in  her  figure  and  gait,  and  deeply  pitted  with 
the  small  pox,  which  she  had  had  severely  in 
her  youth.  By  daily  labor  she  supported  an  aged 
mother ;  and  they  occujJled.  a  room  furnished 
with  the  bare  necessaries  of  life.  Let  not  the 
wealthy  disdain  "  the  simple  annals  of  the  poor." 
She  often  spoke  of  her  success  in  life  with  fer- 
vent gratitude,  and  said  it  seemed  to  her  a 
miracle  how  she  had  risen  in  the  wotld,  so  as 
to  be  able  to  "  keep  house."  \  / 

Her  idea  of  aflluence,  was  bounded  to  a 
sufTicient  supply  of  work  to  enable  her  to  clothe 


x^ 


t 


A  SKETCH   FROM  LIFE.  121 

herself  suitably  for  the  season,  to  furnish  three 
meals  a  day,  and  to  pay  an  annual  rent  of  twelve 
dollars  for  her  room.  This  last  demand  she 
considered  exorbitant,  and  said,  "  if  she  consulted 
oil  y  her  own  comfort  she  would  not  submit  to 
It,  but  Marm  must  live  well,  she  was  used  to 
It,  and  could  not  be  reduced  in  her  old  age ; 
then,  upon  second  thoughts,  she  did  not  so  much 
blame  her  landlord,  for  the  prices  of  every  thing 
had  risen,  and  it  was  natural  enough  that  rent 
should  rise  too."  At  length^  however,  she  said, 
with  something  like  gloom,  "  that  they  must 
move  ;  —  the  landlord  had  raised  their  rent  from 
twelve  to  fourteen  dollars,  and  she  could  not 
afford  to  pay  it,  and,  if  she  could,  she  should 
think  iL  wrong  to-be  living  at  such  a  rent."  I 
offered  to  lend  her  the  two  dollars.  I  would  not 
have  risked  hurting  her  feelings  by  offering  to 
give  them.  She  said,  "  No,  everybody  must 
accommodate  themselves  to  their  circumstances  ; 
she  would  move,  though  it  would  take  her  ofT 
from  a  day's  work,  and  she  was  afraid  tliey 
should  go  behindhand.  The  bedstead  must  be 
uncorded,  and  there  was  a  chest  of  drawers  to 
Ucv -moved,  and  only  one  pair  of  hands  to  do  it 
bat,  thank  her  stars,  they  were  strong  ones." 
I  proposed  sending  a  hand-cart  for  the  heavy 


122  A  SKETCH  FROM  LIFE. 

articles,  and  asked  how  far  they  were  to  be  car- 
ried. "  Only  across  the  entry,"  she  replied  ; 
"  the  landlord  can  fret  a  higher  rent  for  this 
room  than  the  other,  and  so  that  is  naore  suit- 
able for  ws." 

She  certainly  bst  none  of  this  blessed  quality 
of  contentment  by  getting  into  a  smaller  apart- 
ment, but  said,  "  the  same  good  luck  had  fol- 
lowed her  that  did 'about  every  thing;  —  it  took 
less  firo  to  warm  it,  and  was  every  way  a 
saving." 

In  time,  Sary's  mother  died,  (thi.s  was  the 
name  she  always  went  by.)  and  she  became 
rheumatic  and  unable  to  work  ;  ami  then  she  got 
wh.at  she  called  "  a  nice  snug  birth  in  the  alms- 
liouse."  I  knew  bar  love  of  independence  so 
well,  that  I  thought  this  must  be  a  calamity  to 
her  ;  but  I  found  it  otherwise.  The  first  time 
I  went  to  see  her,  she  began  to  enumerate  hei 
comforts;  said,  "she  had  half  a  bed  to  herself 
and  that  was  as  much  as  she  had,  when  her 
mother  was  living."  After  she  recovered  bet 
health,  which  she  did  in  the  course  of  a  few 
months,  she  preferred  remaining  in  the  alms 
house  as  an  assistant.  "  I  can  do  more,"  said 
she,  "  than  earn  my  living ;  I  can  do  something 
for  the  poor,  and  it  is  but  just  that  \  should,  for 


A  SKETCH  PUOJtf  LIFE.  123 

I  have  been  living  almost  a  year  upon  charity 
not  that  I  ever  felt  humbled  by  it,  for  we  are 
all  livinfT  upon  God's  charity."  Sary  was  some- 
thing of  a  philosopher;  for  she  added,  "  that  she 
knew  she  was  well  off  there,  and  it  was  uncer- 
tain wl?ether  she  should  '  better  her  situation,' 
by  trying  to  live  independently." 

She  certainly  had  not  book  learning,  for  she 
could  neither  write  nor  read ;  but  she  had  col- 
lected a  good  many  sayings,  that  she  applied  to 
the  affairs  of  life.  The  wisdom  of  them  she 
always  tested  by  her  own  experience,  and  never 
yielded  her  opinion  to  their  authority  without 
full  conviction.  If  she  had  any  affectation,  it 
was  in  quoting  the  observations  of  men,  instead 
of  those  of  her  own  sex ;  and  she  always  pre- 
faced her  quotations  by  remarking,  "  I  have 
heard  sensible  men  say,"  &;c. 

I  recollect  one  strikinc:  instance  of  her  inde- 
pendence  of  public  opinion.  She  prefaced  a 
quotation  as  usual,  by,  "  I  have  heard  sensible 
men  say, 

*  If  you  mend  your  clothes  on  your  back, 
For  poverty  you  'II  ne'er  lack  ;  ' 

now  I  know  that  is  not  true,  for  I  have  mended 
mine  on  my  back  a  hundred  times,  and  I  never 
yet  wanted  for  any  thing." 


I  24  A  SkETCH  FROM  LITE. 

Some  circumstances  took  plnce  which  ren 
dered  it  necessary  for  Sary  to  make  a  journey, 
It  was  upon  the  whole  a  trial  to  her  equanimity  ; 
but  she  was  too  wise  to  repine  at  an  unavoidable 
evil,  and  so  she  made  up  her  mind  to  perforin  it 
for  pleasure.  It  was  eight  long  miles,  and  then 
there  was  a  bridge  to  cross,  which  would  cost  her 
two  cents.  This  last  difficulty  was  obviated  by 
crossing  in  a  boat  below  for  nothing  ;  it  made 
her  foot  journey  two  miles  further,  but  she 
saved  her  cents.  She  said,  however,  "  that  it 
was  the  hardest  job  she  ever  went  through  for 
pleasure,  and,  upon  the  whole,  the  dearest  one, 
taking  into  account  the  wear  upon  her  shoes."  I 
will  not  further  illustrate  my  subject,  lest  some 
one  should  say,  this  is  not  intellectual  conlnnt- 
nieii-.,  but  mere  vegetation.  It  may  be  so ;  for 
God  ripens  fruits,  flowers,  and  plants  by  his  sun- 
shine ;  and  he  will  watch  over  the  humblest  mind 
to  which  he  has  given  existence,  even  though  to 
the  highly  gifted  it  may  seem  scarcely  raised 
above  the  clod  of  the  valley. 


LAMENT 

FOR  THE  DECLINE  OF  POETRY. 
A   FRAGMENT. 

Alas  .  the  days  of  song  are  past, 
And  all  is  downright  prose  at  last ; 
No  more  the  lover  wooes  with  verse, 
But  argues  better  with  his  purse; 
And  haply  finds,  if  this  is  long, 
His  suit  is  short,  his  pleading  strong. 
The  Moon,  that  once  inspired  the  lay, 
Now  only  wakes  the  watch-dog's  bay. 
The  Muses,  wooed  and  won  of  yore. 
Are  sought  or  worshipped  now  no  more ; 
And  sooth  to  say  (I  speak  from  knowledge, 
Although  I  learned  it  not  at  college),  — 
Since  Homer  thundered  in  their  ear, 
The  deafened  Nine  have  ceased  to  hear; 
At  least,  't  is  vain  their  aid  to  seek, 
Unless  your  prayer  is  couched  in  Greek ; 
For  1  have  tried  it  many  a  time, 
And  could  not  even  get  a  rhyme ; 
So,  let  them  pass,  — they  've  lost  their  zest,- 
They  're  nine  old  musty  maids,  at  best, 
They  're  not  in  vogue,  and  that  's  enough; 
A  goddess,  out  of  fashion,  's  stuff  ! 
Old  Helicon  is  but  a  hill,  — 
Dry  is  Castalia's  bubbling  rill,  — 
Arcadia's  golden  age  is  flown. 
So  Benton's  mint-drops  did  not  go  alone . 


LUXURY,  OR  THE  LADY-BIRD 

BY   MRS.   SEBA   SMITH. 

1  SAW  three  children  gathered  round 
A   tulip's  bed,  on  the  dewy  ground, 
And  their  little  voices  chiming  rung, 
"White  these  were  th.e  words  tlie  young  group  sun^ 
"  Lady»bird,  lady  bird,  fly  away  home! 
Your  house  is  on  fire,  your  children  will  roam.' 
They  thought,  to  be  sure,  tlio  dainty  thing 
Would  flutter  aloR  its  tiny  wing, 
And  fly  to  rescue  the  little  brood. 
Away,  far  away,  in  ihe  deep,  green  wood. 
They  waited  in  vain,  —  it  stirred  not  a  wing, 
Thougli  the  warning  voices  did  loudly  ring. 
They  looked  with  surprise,  then  raised  again, 
In  a  louder  voice,  the  warning  strain. 
"  Lady -bird,  lady-bird,  fly  away  home! 
Your  house  is  oh  fire,  your  children  will  roam." 
The  words  were  sweet,  and  llie  mr-rning  clear,  • 
But  it  fell,  I  am  sure,  on  a  senseless  ear, 
On  a  callous  heart,  or  dangoi  and  home 
Would  have  urged  her  away  where  her  children  roaiu 
They  thought  she  was  an  insensible  thing. 
And  proud,  perchance,  of  her  spotted  wing. 
1  looked  in  the  cup  the  monster  to  see, 
And  learn  what  the  truth  of  the  case  minrht  be. 


LUXURY,   OR  THE  LADY-BIRD.  127 

I  saw,  at  once,  that  her  silly  brain 

Would  think  no  more  of  that  home  again. 

The  whirr  of  her  wings  no  more  would  be  heard, 

In  the  woody  dell,  by  insect  or  bird,  — 

For  there  she  sat,  like  a  fairy  queen, 

On  her  velvet  couch  in  the  tulip's  sheen ; 

And  the  dainty  thing  had  gathered  there 

Whatever  is  rich,  or  sweet,  or  rare, — 

A  thousand  things,  that  were  all  unknown 

In  the  rose-tree  shade,  from  whence  she  had  flown  ; 

And  things,  that  her  sisters  there  would  deem 

Too  wild  for  even  a  lady- bird's  dream. 

Her  paiace  was  hung  with  crimson  and  gold, 

And  gems  gleamed  out  in  the  tapestry's  fo.d ;' 

And  tiny  vases,  with  nectarine  dew. 

Their  coolness  and  fragrance  round  her  tnrew. 

There  were  pearls,  too  small  for  a  common  eye, 

And  such  as  a  poet  alone  can  descry. 

And  fairy  sprites  were  hovering  there, 

To  deck  the  brow  of  the  lady-bird  fair. 

The  rose's  leaf,  and  the  thistle's  down, 

AnC  the  gossamer  web  were  round  her  thrown  j 

And  all  that  were  skilful  in  things  like  these. 

Came  hither  the  dainty  one  to  please. 

A  globule  of  dew  for  a  mirror  hung, 

And  the  glow-worm's  lamp  in  the  hall  was  strung 

A  band  of  insects  was  stationed  near. 

With  music  to  charm  the  lady  bird's  ear 

A  spider  came  with  a  solemn  tick, 

To  know  if  tlie  lady  were  well  or  sick ; 

I  judged  by  his  air,  and  his  sable  hue. 

Of  the  lady-bird's  doctor  I  'd  had  a  view, 


128  LUXURY,  OR  THE  LADY -BIRD. 

And  grieved  to  see  that  the  insect  throng 
Were  aping  our  manners,  right  or  wrong. 
«         «         •         •         * 

Tlie  insect  we  called  a  luxurious  thinj, 

Toi  idle  to  ppread  its  beautiful  wing, 

Ana  fly  awav  on  the  balmy  air, 

WluTe  the  joyous  group  'neath  the  rose-tree  were  > 

We  knew  it  would  dw;  in  that  gorgeous  home. 

And  never  agarn  the  green-wood  roam  ; 

The  rustling  leaf,  and  the  healthful  breeze. 

Were  all  unmar'ited  in  her  selfish  ease. 

The  gentle  voices  of  love  and  mirth. 

In  vain  rang  ud  from  the  joyous  earth. 

We  left  her  tliere  m  iier  pride,  to  dje^ 

A  lady-bird  spoiled  by  luxury. 


THE    JOUllNLY   OF    iMKMOK^. 

I  HOVERED,  in  guise  of  a  witching  dream, 
O'er  tiie  captive's  coiicli  ,  and  a  bnlliapt  gleam 
or  tlie  purest  joy    in  his  features  shone, 
As  I  spoke,  in  a  low  and  impassioned  tone, 
Of  a  lovely  home  in  a  tranquil  glade, 
And  the  changeless  faith  of  a  dark-eyed  maid. 
But  1  tou\;hed  the  fetters  which  bound  him  fast 
And  a  cloud  of  anguish  that  fac(;  o'ercast. 

1  lingered  not  with  tlie  young;  and  fair, 
If  love  and  hope  were  my  rivals  tliere  ; 
But  I  knew  I  should  come,  when  youth  was  flown 
And  raise,  in  those  innocent  hearts,  a  throne. 

I  sought  the  dwelling  where  death  Imd  left, 
On  the  jovie&s  hearth,  las  ioot-pi.uts  deep; 
A  mother,  unconscious  of  earthly  ill, 
Was  tranquilly  sleeping  a  "  dreamless  sleep." 
I  harrowed  the  souls  of  a  youthful  throng, 
Not  mine  to  comfort,  not  mine  to  bless  ; 
1  called  from  their  graves  the  thoughtless  word, 
The  wayward  deed,  and  the  cold  caress, 
Which  had  grieved  that  kind  and  gentle  heart, 
Which  could  lavish  no  longer  its  "  wealth  of  love  ' 
iJut,  worn  and  wearied  with  earth-born  cares, 
Was  glad  of  a  refuge  in  realms  above. 
Remorse  and  regret  alike  were  vain  ; 
Nor  all  earth's  treasures,  nor  all  earth's  tears, 

9 


ice,  and  the  softened  tone 
ijanged  ;   at  the  altar's  oide 
id  a  youthful  bride ; 
T'er  the  maiden's  brow, 
te  of  an  earlier  vow, 
le  in  lu3  mjinhood's  prime, 
Gatlifiring  gold  in  a  far-OT  clime. 
She  sought  to  bribe  me  with  sparkling  gems, 
I  would  not  list  to  her  earnest  prayer  ; 
Uncalled,  ungreeted,  unwelcome,  1  came  , 
No  wedding' garment  was  mine  to  wear. 
Eut  1  laughed  at  flio  yiowcrlcss  rivals,  whicU  shone 
In  those  dark-w  \  and  glittering  zone 

As  I  plodded  onward  my  weary  way, 
A  group  of  wild  urchins  entreated  my  stay  ; 
They  were  conning  theu^^|Lin  the  morning  sun. 
And  earnestly  wishing  sVHBnance  done; 
They  shouted  a  welcome,  but  shouted  in  vain  ; 
1  dared  not  mix  with  that  rival  train  ; 
For  Wit  was  there,  with  his  arch  reply, 
And  Mirth,  with  her  saucy,  wandering  eye, 
And  tSport  looked  forth,  and  longed  to  ride 
His  mimic  bark  on  the  river's  tide  , 


While 
In  sile 

I  sought 
Where,  weak, 
Dwelt  a  tranquil 


EMORY, 


131 


:e       ''^^■■MMMI^HMmipK  generous  deedt 
.  orful  spirit,  enduring  lonjj, 
And  nieekly  brooking  the  keenest  wrong; 
Of  a  life,  in  noblest  efforts  spent, 
And  a  soul,  in  its  conscious  worth,  content. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

BY   MISS    M.   A.    BROWXE. 

Which  is  the  true  earthly  fairy  land,  —  the 
region  where  the  wayward,  but  lovely  little 
beings  love  best  to  hold  their  revels  ?  Germa- 
ny, with  her  black  forests,  and  her  strange  tales 
of  demons  and  monsters,  has  claimed  those  fair 
and  delicate  creatures  for  her  own.  Scotland 
can  show  the  green  rings  their   light    feet  have 

DO  O 

left  among  her  brown  licather  ;  and  often  Iwive 
they  been  seen,  by  hardy  deer-stalker  and  wan- 
dering minstrel,  in  the  parks  and  forests  of 
merry  England.  But  there  is  another  country, 
not  less  beautiful  and  famed,  which  has  enjoyed, 
at  least,  an  equal  share  of  fairy  favor.  Can  it 
be  doubted  that  1  speak  of  Ireland  ?  Never  was 
land  more  prolific  of  fairy  lore ;  not  that  lore 
which  is  clasped  in  dusty  volumes,  or  hidden  in 
unintelligible  old  manuscript,  but  that  wnich  is 
transferred  from  generation  to  generation,  learned 
by  the  infant  from  its  mother's  lips,  believed  as 
a  faith  which  it  were  a  sin  to  doubt ;  written  on 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGB  FEET.  13^ 

the  l:jeavls  and  twined  in  the  minds  of  the  chiU 
dren  of  Erin,  with  their  earliest  ideas. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1833,  that 
I  had  occasion  to  visit  the  south  of  Ireland , 
and  my  business  led  ine  to  the  little  town  of 
Clonacarty,  in  the  County  of  Cork.  During  my 
stay,  I  fell  in  with  ihe  quondam  schoolmaster 
of  the  parisli,  who  had  formerly  "  taught  the 
young  idea  how  to  shoot,"  beneath  the  shelter 
of  a  stout  hawthorn  hedge,  until  the  march  of 
intellect,  and  a  national  school,  had  fairly  robbed 
him  of  his  vocation.  Why  will  people  be  so 
much  wiser  than  their  fathers  }  I  verily  believe 
that  many  of  his  old  pupils,  under  their  new 
lights,  would  have  gone  near  to  doubt  the  truth 
of  the  tale  which  follows.  He  related  it  to  me 
himself,  one  fine  summer  noon,  as  we  sat  on  a 
green  knoll,  and  overlooked  the  scene  of  the 
story. 

"  'T  i's  long  ago  smee  there  was  a  house  here  ; 
before  my  time,  there  was  n't  one  stone  of  it 
left  upon  another ;  but,  notwithstandia',  there  was 
wanst  a  dacent  house  stood  convaynient  to  this, 
jist  beyant  the  grate  ash  trees.  'T  was  called 
tlie  farm  of  Kilavain,  and  was  burned  in  the  grate 
rebellion  ;    but   that   is    nothing    to  the  purpose. 


134     THK  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

"  On  this  farm  lived  one  Dick  Donovan,  ana 
his  only  child,  a  very  purty  girl,  called  Moyna. 
I  wish  I  could  paint  you  the  likeness  of  Moyna 
Donovan  ;  —  sure  she  was  handsomer  than  an 
angel  itself;  so  at  laste,  my  grandfather  towld 
me,  —  the  saints  be  good  to  his  sowl,  for  iver 
and  iver,  amen  !  She  was  about  sixteen  years 
old  ;  small  and  light  made,  her  eyes  blue  as  the 
skies  above,  and  her  hair  black  as  the  raven's 
wing.  These  are  ould  sayings,  but  I  can't  find 
newer  or  better  in  spakin'  of  Moyna,  Jist  round 
the  fut  of  yonder  hill,  lived  the  landlord  of  all 
these  fields  and  farms  about,  one  Misther  Doyne, 
or,  as  he  generally  was  called,  Misther  Walter. 
A  dacent  jintleman  he  was  ;  lived  on  his  estate 
the  year  round,  barrin'  an  occasional  visit  to  the 
city  of  Cork,  and  was,  altogether,  as  merry- 
hearted,  open-handed,  free-spoken  a  youth  as 
you  'd  sec  of  a  summer's  day.  Long  and  well  had 
he  loved  Moyna  Donovan,  and  often  had  he  vow- 
ed to  make  her  his  wife  ;  but  crops  failin',  and 
tmnants  runnin'  away,  and  one  thing  or  another 
camr.  across  him,  and  he  was  forced  to  put  ofi* 
marryin',  till  his  affairs  were  put  a  bit  straighler. 
"With  Walter  Doyne  lived  one  of  his  relations  ; 
that  is,  he  had  a  score  or  two  of  them  about  his 
place,  but  only  one,  for  a  wonder,  who  ate  and 


THE   LEtiEND   OF   1  HE   LARGE   FEET.     135 

dhrank  wi-d  himself,  and  was  looked  on  as  nearly 
his  aiquil.  Whether  he  wa:3  his  uncle  or  his 
cousin,  or  some  friend  of  his  father's,  nobody 
could  rightly  tell  ;  but  he  never  wint,  amongst 
high  or  low,  by  any  name  but  Uncle  Jack. 
IJe  was  a  jolly,  stout  little  man,  about  forty 
years  old,  wid  a  good-tempered  face,  and  a 
hearty  laugh ;  remarkable  for  nothing  but  a 
wonderful  dislike  to  doing  a  hand's  turn  for  him- 
self.  But,  give  him  his  due,  he  was  ready  enough 
to  mend  all  the  broken  spa-des  and  fishin'  tackle, 
and  go  a  nuttin'  with  the  byes  and  girls,  and 
tache  the  childher  to  make  bows  an'  arrows,  or 
to  do  any  thing  in  life  for  a  neighbour.  Now, 
1  think,  you  have  the  picktur  of  all  parties  con- 
sarned  in  this  story,  except  Jerry  Maguire  and 
Nelly  Malone.  Jerry  was  the  finest  specimint 
of  a  Keny  man,  that  iver  you  seen.  A  tall, 
raw-boned  crathur,  wid  red  cheeks,  a  rownd  face, 
wid  blue  eyes,  an'  white  teeth,  which  you  were 
sure  to  see  if  you  looked  in  his  face,  he  was  so 
apt  at  smilin'  at  you.  Nelly  Malone  was  a  purty 
'air-haired  colleen,  who  waited  on  Moyna,  the 
cows,  and  the  chickens. 

"  At  the  time  1  spake  of,  yonder  little  green 
.pot,  which  you  see  the  ploughmen  have  taken 
are  to  leave  unbroken,  was  the  favorite  meet- 


sr 


136     THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

ing  place  of  the  good  people,  as  they  call  'em 
bad  ind  to  'em,  for  what  they  done  to  purty 
]\Ioyi»a  Donovan,  as  you  shall  hear  in  proper 
time.  Well  ;  the  good  or  bad  people  kept  their 
nightly  revels  there,  jist  as  you  see,  a  little  before 
you  come  to  Dick  Donovan's  farm,  that  is,  when 
the  farm  was  in  it.  They  could  have  seen  thim 
junketin'  from  the  very  windys,  if  the  ash  trees 
had  not  stood  bclwanc,  and  spiled  the  prospect. 
It  was  a  fine,  lovely  summer's  night,  when 
Moyna  Donovan  was  walking  from  the  fair  of 
Clonacarty  wid  Walter  Doyne.  I  should  tell 
you,  she  was  thought  to  have  the  purtiest  fut  and 
ancle,  and  to  be  the  best  dancer  in  all  Munster. 
They  had  jist  passed  through  the  ould  gateway 
that  used  to  be  here,  and  Walter,  in  a  jokin' 
way,  was  spakin'  of  IMoyna's  dancin',  and  she 
blushin'  like  a  rose,  an'  frownin',  and  cryin' 
'  Nonsense,'  and  thin  turnin'  away  her  head,  that 
he  should  not  see  her  smilin'.  '  True  for  you, 
Moyna,  avourneen,''  said  he,  'sure  didn't  you 
bate  them  all  out  an'  out,  the  two  S-ullivans  that 
set  themselves  up  for  the  hoith  of  gentility,  and 
M.ss  Rose  Flaherty,  that  tachcs,  and  Mislhi-ess 
Newcnham,  an'  all  ?  I  b'lieve  you'd  bate  the 
fairies  thimselvcs,  only  they'd  not  dare  to  thry 
wid  you,  wid  thim  purty  little  feet  of  your  own, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET.  137 

siz  he,  lookin'  down  at  thim,  as  they  glanced  in 
and  out  from  beneath  her  white  gown  in  the 
moonUght. 

"  What  Moyna  answered  I  do  not  know  ;  an}' 
way,  she  almost  believed  all  Waller  Doyne  had 
been  sayin',  partly  because  he  said  it,  and  part- 
ly because  it  plazed  her.  Somehow,  she  was 
restless  in  her  mind  that  night.  May  be  she 
was  over-heated  wid  the  dancin',  and  the  walk 
home  ;  may  be  she  did  not  know  the  rason  her- 
self; but,  any  way,  when  Walter  Doyne  was 
gone,  she  walked  out  into  the  garden,  and  then 
into  the  field.  She  had  not  gone  far,  when  she 
heard  the  sound  of  music,  but  so  low  and  soft, 
she  would  have  thought  it  was  only  coming  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind  from  the  town  of  Clona- 
carty,  if  every  note  had  n't  been  heard  a-s  clear 
as  if  it  wa-3  jist  beside  her.  Some  way,  the 
thought  of  the  fairies  come  into  her  head,  an' 
all  that  Walter  Doyne  had  been  sayin'  ;  and 
she  almost  wished  she  could  have  struv  wid  the 
fairies  ;  for  Moyna,  small  blame  to  her,  was  a 
little  tasle  proud  of  her  dancin'.  Well,  the  mu- 
sic sounded  nearer  and  nearer  ;  and,  just  turnin' 
round  by  the  ash  trees,  beyant  the  green  rmg, 
]\Ioyna  came  upon  the  whole  fairy  court,  in  the 
midst  of  their  merrymakin'.     They  were  dancin' 


138  rilK  LEGEND  OK  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

away  to  the  music  Moyna  had  heard,  in  the  best 
of  tune,  and  as  hght  as  a  feather.  Some  of  thim 
were  standin'  by,  and  Moyna,  half  pleased,  half 
fiighlened,  stood  watching  them,  too.  But  in  a 
minnet,  her  fear  overcame  her  wish  to  stay,  and 
she  was  hoping  to  slip  away,  and  get  home 
unknownst,  when  one  of  the  little  crathurs,  who 
had  been  cuttin'  capers,  and  snappin'  his  fingers 
over  his  head  like  mad,  danced  up  to  her,  an', 
wid  a  low  bow,  '  Moyna  Donovan,'  siz  he, 
will  you  take  a  dance  wid  me?' 
"  Now  Moyna,  though  she  was  but  a  woman, 
had  a  true  Irish  woman's  heart  in  her  bosom  , 
and,  whatever  she  felt,  would  have  scorned  to 
seem  afraid  ;  so  she  curtsied  in  reply,  and 
danced  forrits.  Thin  began  such  a  dancin' 
match  as  these  fields  niver  saw  before  or  since. 
At  first,  all  the  advantage  was  on  Moyna's  side  ; 
she  was  light  and  slight,  and  knew  all  the  steps 
and  figures  which  were  never  so  much  as  heard 
of  in  fairy  land.  She  shot  hither  and  thither,  up 
and  down,  slow  and  quick  ;  now  swimmin'  along 
as  if  she  was  goin'  to  faint ;  now  burstin'  into  a 
light  quick  step,  enough  to  electrify  you  to  see  il, 
while  the  fairy  spectators  clapped  their  hands, 
and  laughed  for  very  pleasure.  But  slie  was  but 
a  mortal  aflhcr  all.    The  fairy  music  played  fast- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET.  139 

er  and  faster,  and  her  partner  leaped  and  capered 
higher  than  ever.  Poor  Moyna's  limbs  began  tc 
fail  her ;  she  tottered  and  trembled,  and  at  last 
was  obliged  to  stop  and  rest,  sinkin'  down  at  the 
fut  of  one  of  the  trees.  Immediately  there  was 
a  shout  of  triumph  from  the  elves,  and  Moyna 
would  have  run  away ;  but  she  was  too  weary  to 
rise. 

"  The  whole  tribe  of  fairies  gathered  round 
her,  and  her  malicious  pai'tner  took  a  harebell 
from  his  cap,  and  shook  the  dew  from  its  cup 
upon  her  feet.  No  sooner  did  it  touch  them,  than 
a  great  pair  of  brogues  rose  out  of  the  earth,  and 
the  fairies,  sazing  them,  buckled  thim  on  the 
helpless  glrPs  feet,  singin'  an  uncouth  sort  of 
charm,  and  vanishin'  wid  a  shout  of  laughter  that 
shook  the  leaves  from  the  ash  tree.  The  words 
of  their  song  Moyna  could  not  rightly  recollect ; 
but  the  drift  of  them  was,  that  she  should  never 
be  ridded  of  the  brogues,  till  she  should  find 
a  thorough-bred  Irishman,  with  courage  and 
strength  enough  to  challenge  the  fairies  to  dance, 
and    to  bate  them,  too. 

"  How  she  got  home  she  did  not  know  ;  she 
was  lyin'  in  her  own  bed  in  the  morning,  and 
the  sun  comin'  shinin'  through  the  windy,  and 
she  started  up,  hoping  she  had  been  dhreaming. 


/  4  0  THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

But  she  soon  found  the  dlfTer,  for  there  were  tho 
bis  brusucs  fast  round  her  slender  ancles,  makin' 
her  party  feet  look  bigger  than  any  gossoon's  on 
the  farm.  Greatly  terrified  and  grieved  yoi  may 
be  sure  she  was  ;  she  dreaded  to  tell  lier  father 
^and  Walter  Doyne  how  she  came  by  the  brogues. 
Tiiey  would,  no  doubt,  scowld  her  for  her  night- 
walkin'  ;  and,  may  be,  Walter  would  judge  her 
to  be  unlucky,  and  have  nothing  more  to  say  to 
her.  She  tried  to  loose  the  strong  leather  latch- 
ets,  but  in  vain.  As  soon  as  she  got  one  clasp 
undone,  it  fastened  again  tighter  than  iver.  Fair- 
ly bothered  she  was  at  last,  and  the  only  thing 
she  could  do,  was  to  sit  down  and  cry  for  the 
bare  life.  Presintly  she  hears  her  father  callin' 
out  for  his  huckoslil,  and  '  Moyna,  Moyna,'  siz 
he,  '  where  's  the  colleen  at  all.  Sleepin'  after 
her  dancin',  I  suppose.  It's  likely  I'll  let  her  go 
to  the  fair  of  Clonacarty,  if  this  is  to  be  the  way 
of  it.  ]\Ioyna,  agra,  can't  ye  answer  ?  '  and 
Moyna  called  down  to  him  that  she  was  comin% 
as  well  as  she  could  for  the  cryin'.  AVlicn  she 
got  into  the  kitchen,  her  father  was  gone  o\it  of 
.t,  and  she  had  jist  time  to  slip  in  asy,  and  got 
behind  the  tabic  and  hide  her  large  feet,  before 
lie  came  back.  She  said  little  enough,  you  may 
be  sure,  and  her  father,  atia'  in  a  vast  hurry, 


THE   LEGEND    OF  THE  LARGE  FEET.     141 

Bcarcely  looked  up  from  his  mate  ;  only  now  aa' 
then  asKing  her  a  question  about  the  price  of 
whate,  and  bastes,  and  such  like,  at  the  fa:r, 
where  he  had  not  been,  for  a  rason  of  his  own. 
Moyna  know  as  much  of  them  things  as  the  man 
in  the  moon  ;  but  she  answered  as  well  as  slie 
could,  keepin'  her  feet  hid  undher  the  table,  and 
turnin'  her  face  to  the  door,  when  he  happened 
to  look  over  to  her.  But  at  last,  '  Father,'  siz 
she,  '  I  must  go  to  confession  this  very  day.' 

"  These  were  the  first  words  that  made  ould 
Dick  Donovan  look  full  at  her.  He  riz  out  of 
his  sate,  and  stared  full  in  her  face.  '  Yarrah, 
what  ails  you  at  all,  avourneen,''  siz  he.  '  It 's 
but  last  week  ye  were  at  yer  duty.  You  can 
have  nothing  to  confess  now  but  what  ye  might 
as  well  tell  yer  ould  father.  Spake  to  him,  dar- 
lin',  and  tell  him  all  that  's  troublin'  the  little 
heart  of  ye.' 

"  Wid  that,  Moyna  threw  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  and  kissed  him  ;  but  she  sobbed  so  sadly, 
it  was  long  before  she  could  spake.  At  lasi 
she  tould  him  all  ;  how  she  had  evened  herself, 
in  the  pride  of  her  heart,  to  the  fairies,  and  how 
they  had  punished  her  ;  together  wid  the  only 
manes  of  ridding  her  of  the  brogues,  if  indeed 
she  ever  could  be  released  from  them- 


i42    THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

"  Donovan  was  bothered  entirely  what  to  ad- 
vise  ;  but  he  thought  he  'd  have  one  trial  to  f^ot 
the  brogues  off,  any  way.  So  he  tuk  a  knife, 
and  begun  to  cut  the  straps ,  but  sure  never 
•was  leather  like  them.  The  knife  wint  m  asy 
enough,  and  cut  as  if  it  war  goin'  through 
water ;  but,  like  the  same  water  closin'  over  the 
wake  of  a  vessel,  the  leather  closed  over  the 
track  of  the  knife.  Then  Donovan  grew  mad, 
and  he  swore  by  this  and  by  that,  that  he  'd 
have  the  brogues  off,  in  spite  of  the  fairies,  and 
the  ould  boy  himself  to  back  them,  and  he  made 
a  desperate  slap  wid  the  knife  at  the  thick 
leather  ;  when,  oh  miirlher,  it  slipped  aside,  and, 
scratchiu'  his  daughter's  purty  ancle,  drew  more 
than  one  dhrop  of  blood.  Then  he  flung  down 
the  knife  in  'raal  despair.  '  There  's  nothing 
for  it,'  siz  he,  '  but  to  go  to  father  O'Halloran. 
I  'II  take  you  to  him  myself,  this  day ;  or  may 
be,  he  would  step  over  here  ;  for  we  would  n't  be 
makin'  a  show  of  them  feet  to  the  parish,  if  we 
could  help  it.' 

"  Well  an'  good.  Father  O'llalloran  came, 
and  soon  poor  Moyna  tould  him  the  story, 
and  showed  him  the  grievance  of  the  brogues. 
'  My  daughter,'  siz-  he,  '  it  was  a  sinful  thought 
to  even   yourself  to  the   good  people,  and  it  's 


THE   LEGEND   OF    THE   LARGE   FEET.     143 

for  meddling  o'  them  that  this  evil  is  permit- 
.cd.  However,  we  '11  thr}  what  can  bis  done, 
i  did  not  come  widout  the  manes  ; '  and  wid 
that  he  took  out  his  manual,  and  a  little  bot- 
tle of  holy  wather.  But  if  all  the  precious  tears 
Moyna's  purty  blue  eyes  had  shed  would  n't  help 
her,  you  may  be  sure  the  holy  wath-er  did  little 
good.  The  priest  prayed  to  the  saints  all  round, 
and  w'asted  a  dale  of  the  blessed  wather,  but  ail 
to  no  purpose ;  the  brogues  would  not  stir  an 
inch  lor  liim.  Then  siz  Father  O'Halloran, 
*  I  'm  sadly  afeard,  I\Ioyna,  you  're  a  bad 
mimber,  either  in  faith  or  practiz.  There  's 
somelhin'  on  your  mind  that  ye  never  tould  me 
of,  or  these  devices  of  the  evil  one  would  not 
have  such  power  over  you.' 

"  Rloyna  began  cryin'  again,  and  purtested  she 
'  knew  nothing  to  cause  her  to  be  so  punished, 
always  exceptin'  the  meddlin'  wid  the  fairies  ; 
but  she  was  willing  to  confess  to  his  riverence, 
notwithstanding.' 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  what  her  confession  was, 
for  that,  you  know,  is  a  matter  betwane  the  priest 
and  the  penitent ;  any  way,  there  was  no  pinance 
appointed  her.  But  the  confession  did  no  more 
good  than  any  thing  else  ;  so  Father  O'Halloran 
pocketed  his  two  thirteens,  and  walked  peaceably 


144      THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

home,  hummin'  '  The  Groves  of  Blarney,'  and 
wondering  what  the  dickens  ailed  Moyna  Don- 
ovan. 

"  When  Walter  Doyne  came  in  the  evenin',  as 
usual,  it  was  a  hard  task  for  Moyna  to  see  liim, 
and  toll  him  what  had  happened  to  her,  and  how 
she  feared  it  woukl  put  an  ind  to  all  hctwane 
them.  But  when  W'alter  heard  of  the  way  she 
might  be  relased,  you  may  be  sure  he  was  not 
long  in  offering  to"  dance  her  feet  to  their  proper 
size  again.  But  Moyna  would  not  hear  of  it. 
Slie  said  it  was  only  puttin'  himself  into  useless 
danger.  It  was  a  th.orough  Irishman  only  could 
sarve  her,  and  he  was  half  English  by  his  motli- 
er's  side,  so  it  would  be  in  vain.  But  he  was  not 
to  be  sed  ;  and  that  very  night,  when  everybody 
was  asleep  in  their  beds,  ho  set  out  for  the  fairy 
ring.  He  had  betther  have  stayed  at  home.  He 
called  in  vain  on  the  fairies  to  appear.  He 
conjured  them  to  have  pity  on  poor  Moyna,  and 
fasten  their  infernal  brogues  on  his  feet  instead 
of  hers.  He  invoked  them  in  the  names  of  all 
the  saints  and  sinners  he  could  remember,  but 
nevor  a  fairy  did  he  see. 

'  Just  as  the  mornin'  was  dawning,  he  turned 
to  go  home,  vexed  entirely,  an'  vowing  ven- 
geance on  the  good  people,  though  he  wiat  to  tho 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  I  EET.  145 

Pope  at  Rome  to  get  it.  Jist  then  his  foot  slip- 
ped on  a  wet  place  in  the  path,  and  down  he  fell. 
A  sound  ran  through  the  grass  and  trees.  May 
be  it  wos  only  the  mornin'  wind,  freshenin'  with 
the  daybreak  ;  but  to  Walter  it  seemed  like  a 
distant  peal  of  laughter,  burstin'  from  many  peo- 
ple at  once.  It  rose  high  and  long,  an'  died  away 
in  the  sobbin'  and  wailin'  of  the  wind.  Walter 
tried  to  rise,  but  found  he  could  n't ;  and  ho 
might  have  lain  there  from  that  time  to  this,  had 
not  one  of  Dick  Donovan's  laborers,  comin'  to 
his  work,  helped  him  home.  He  found  he  had 
sprained  his  ancle,  and  that  so  badly,  that  it 
would  be  many  a  day  before  he  could  strive  wid 
the  good  people,  even  if  they  should  take  his 
next  offer  of  a  thrial. 

"  It  was  wid  a  heavy  heart  that  he  gave  up  the 

* 

thought  of  relasin'  Moyna  Donovan  for  the  pres- 
ent, and  heard  the  doctor  say,  he  must  keep  still 
and  not  even  walk  for  days,  or  perhaps  weeks. 

"  When  Moyna  heard  of  his  disaster,  she  was 
like  to  go  ravin'.  '  She  was  the  most  unfortunate 
crathur  on  earth,'  she  said,  '  first  to  suffer  this 
way  herself,  and  thin  to  bring  a  friend  into 
trouble,  and  all  for  no  rason  at  all.' 

"  Poor  Walter  was  obliged  to  stay  m  his  room, 
an'  the  only  body  he  had  to  spake  to  was  one  he 
10 


146  THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  lARGE  FEET. 

could  not  well  avoid,  and  that  was  Uncle  Jack 
He  had  heard  of  IMoyna's  misfortune,  and  now 
"Walter,  to  ase  his  heart,  up  an'  tould  him  all 
his  troubles,  and  how  perplexed  he  was  wid 
thiiikin'  what  a  while  it  would  be  before  he 
would  get  another  chance  of  bating  the  fairies, 
by  rason  of  his  lameness.  Uncle  Jack  pitied 
him  sincerely,  and  he  said  so  ;  but  he  did  not 
say  a  word  of  the  plan  he  had  thought  of,  for 
puttin'  every  thing  to  rights.  He  had  been 
schemin'  it  all  in  his  head,  while  Walter  was 
talkin'  to  him,  though  he  stood  quite  innocent 
like,  wid  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  chewin'  his 
tobacky  quid,  alid  seemed  to  be  walchin'  the 
brood  of  young  ducks,  that  was  wabblin'  and 
squabblin'  in  the  yard  before  the  windy.  '  Make 
youreelf  aisy  Walter,  ??m  houchal,''  he  began. 
Then  he  stopped  himself.  '  What  can't  be  curccT 
mu5t  be  endured,'  siz  he,  '  so  take  another  tum- 
bler to  .Moyna's  good  health,  and  your  own  suc- 
cess the  next  time  you  're  to  thry  your  skill 
with   the   fairies.' 

"  But  Walter  had  no  mind  to  more  punch  then ; 
the  more  wondher  fur  him  !  an'  Uncle  Jack 
was  "lad  to  'lol  to  his  own  little  room  ni  the 
garret,  an'  think  about  his  scheme.  An'  what 
think  you  it  was  ?     Nayther  more  nor  less  than 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET.  14/ 

to  challenge  the  fah-ies  himself!  Fancy  Uncle 
Jack  challengin'  the  elves,  that  they  say  are  aa 
light  as  the  dewdrop  dancin'  on  the  bennet  top ! 
He  who,  if  he  was  not  much  taller  than  the 
chiricane,  was  at  laste  six  times  as  broad 
'  But  I  'm  a  true  Irishman,  every  inch  of 
me,'  siz  he,  '  an'  there  's  a  purty  girl  in  the 
case,  which  ought  to  be  enough  for  me  any  day, 
without  minlionin'  my  own  born  relation,  poor 
Walter  1  '  An'  so  sayin'.  Uncle  Jack  vvint  to  the 
little  cracked  shaving-glass,  that  he  might  make 
himself  dacint,  and  go  respectable  to  the  dancin', 
which  lie  liad  determined  on  for  that  very  night. 
"  Now  the  moon  shone  brightly  out  on  these 
wide  fields  about  us,  and  cor  in'  down  yond  jr 
path,  you  might  have  'spied  a  little  rollicking 
looking  crathur,  with  his  hat  cocked  on  three 
hairs,  his  shillelagh  in  his  hand,  steppin'  lightly 
along  on  his  toes,  and  whistling  as  if  he  were 
ready  for  a  frolic.  On  he  came,  as  bould  as 
whiskey  and  a  good  cause  could  make  him,  until 
he  reached  the  fairy  ring.  He  was  consitheriiig 
how  he  could  call  the  good  people  in  the  po- 
litest manner,  when  a  little  crathur,  dressed  all  in 
green,  popped  up  before  him,  and  whichever 
way  he  turned,  there  was  another  and  anotlu^r 
till  he  stood  in  the  very  midst  of  the  fairies. 


148    THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

*' '  What  do  you  want  here,  mortal  ?  what  do 
you  here,  man  ?  '  demanded  many  voices,  at 
once. 

"  '  Manners,  manners,  ladies  and  jintlemen  , 
cne  at  a  time,  if  you  plase,  an'  I  '11  do  my  best 
to  answer  ye,'  siz  Jack,  no  ways  daunted.  '  1  'm 
here  in  regard  to  my  nevy,  and  purty  Moyna 
Donovan,  whom  you  so  kindly  gifted  wid  a  oair 
of  brogues  gratish  ;  an'  I  'm  here  to  see  if  there  's 
no  way  of  pershwading  you  to  take  your  present 
back  again.' 

" '  There  's  but  one  way,'  replied  a  silver 
voice,  '  and  you  know  tlie  way  quite  well.  You 
must  bate  us, — tire  us  down  at  the  dancin',  an' 
if  you  win,  she  '11  be  relased  at  once.' 

"  It  was  the  queen  of  the  fairies  herself  who 
spoke. 

" '  My  dancin'  days  have  been  long  over, 
ma'am,'  siz  Jack  ;  '  but,'  says  he  agin,  bowin' 
and  drawin'  nearer  to  her,  '  if  your  ladyship's 
self  would  do  me  the  honor,' 

"  '  /,'  said  the  lady,  drawin'  back  like  any 
queen  in  the  world, —  'Mortal,  presumptuous 
rnoital  !  do  you  know  wliom  you  address  .''  but 
any  of  these  my  maidens,'  wavin'  her  hand 
mighty  stately,  '  will  thry  their  skill  with  you  as 
soon  as  you  like 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET.   i4S 

"  '  Wid  all  my  heart,'  siz  Jack,  quite  bould 
tike  ;  '  which  will  I  take  ?  ' 

"  '  You  must  choose  for  yourself,'  replied  her 
majesty  of  the  fairies,  and  the  word  '  Choose, 
choose,  choose  ! '  ran  from  lip  to  lip,  like  a  faii.t 
wind  gom'  from  rose  to  rose. 

"  '  Then,  by  your  lave,'  siz  Jack,  '  I  '11  take 
out  the  little  lady  in  green ;  she  's  a  sweet 
crathur,  1  'm  sure,  an'  won't  be  hard  upon  a 
poor  bye  like  me,  that  's  twenty  times  her 
weight  upon  his  heels,'  siz  he,  thrying  to  luk 
insinivatin',  an'  thinkin'  to  come  over  her  wid  a 
bit  of  the  blarney. 

"'  Don't  be  |?uttin'  your  flummery  on  us.  Uncle 
Jack,'  siz  she,  standing  forrits ;  '  but  just  begin, 
and  do  your  best,  as  I  shall  do  mine  ; '  but  Jack 
saw  she  was  not   altogether  displeased  whh  the       ,    ^!(j^;' 
taste  of  flattery  he  made  bould  to  give  her. 

"  Well,  the  unseen  musicians  began  to  play, 
an'  away  they  went.  Jack  and  the  fairy,  to  the  y 

,une  of  '  Katty  O'Lynch.'  In  a  few  minutes, 
Uncle  Jack  threw  away  his  hat  ana  wig,  aa 
useless  incumbrances,  puflin'  and  blowin'  wid  the 
fatigue  and  want  of  breath,  but  sail  dancin'  on, 
as  if  he  had  quicksilver  in  his  heels.  For  some 
timn  you  'd  have  sworn  he  had  as  good  a  chance 
as  his  antagonist,  whose  lapes  an'  bounds  was  n't 


150     THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

to  be  compared  to  Uncle  Jack's  flings  an'  capers. 
But  wlicn  the  fairies  saw  this,  they  got  vexed 
and  did  nothin'  but  torment  him.  Some  would 
rin  jist  across  him  when  he  would  be  chassey- 
ing  forrit ;  others  were  riddy  behind  to  pull  the 
lap  of  his  coat,  thinkin"  to  bring  him  backwards 
on  his  scull.  It  was  in  vain  that  Uncle  Jack 
roared  for  fair  play,  and  danced  faster  for  very 
anger.  Still  the  little  crathurs  were  so  trouble- 
some, one  of  tbem  in  particular,  that  he  could 
not  forbear  raising  his  fut,  an'  givin'  it  a  kick. 
Immadiately  there  was  such  a  willUoo  as  never 
was  heard  ;  and  before  he  could  bless  himself, 
Jack  was  laying  on  the  broad  of  his  back,  ag 
unable  to  rise  as  a  turtle  in  the  same  condition; 
and  one  of  the  fairies  was  standin'  on  his  chest. 

"  '  Och,'  cried  he,  '  by  the  powers  !  is  this  the 
tratement  ye  give  strangers,  ye  little  venomous 
sprissonneens  !     If  there  's  law  or  justice  to  be 

had  ' but  here  the  fairy  on  his  breast,  bad 

cess  to  it,  set  its  foot  on  his  mouth  ;  and,  though 
it  was  no  heavier  than  a  flower-bud,  it  stopped 
his  spakin'. 

'"Have  done  wid  yer  nonsense,  Uncle  Jack,* 
617.    the    imp,  '  and    go  quietly   home,  an'  lave 
other  people's  aflairs  to  take  care  of  themselves 
If  it  was  n't  that  the  day  is  jist  going  to  break 


THE  LEGEND  OP  THE  LARGE  I  EET.  15i 

I  'd  give  you  a  mark  that  you  should  be  known 
by  for  ever  an'  a  day.  Good  mornin'  to  you, 
Uncle  Jack,  an'  bctther  luck  to  you  in  your  next 
undertaking.'  The  elf  then  jumped  off  his  breast 
and,  as  it  passed,  struck  his  wrist  with  its  hand, 
and  the  whole  court  vanished,  wid  a  shout  of 
aughter,  lavin'  poor  Uncle  Jack  wid  his  wrist 
twisted  out  of  joint,  and  altogether  in  a  very  bad- 
condition. 

"  Things  went  on  in  this  way  for  some  weeks. 
]\fr.  Walter's  ancle  got  worse,  instead  of  betther 
an'  Moyna's  feet  were  as  fast  in  the  brogues 
as  ever.  Her  misfortunes  were  noised  far  an' 
wide,  an'  she  came  to  be  spoke  of  by  strangers 
as  '  The  Lady  of  the  Large  Feet.' 

"  Now  Nelly  Malone,  the  maid,  had  a  raal 
affection  for  three  things  in  the  world,  —  for 
Miss  Moyna,  for  the  white  turkey-cock,  and  for 
Jerry  Maguire.  May  be,  havin'  but  few  things 
to  set  her  heart  on,  she  loved  them  the  betther ; 
for  poor  Nelly  had  nayther  father  or  mother,  or 
any  other  relation  livin'.  She  had  reared  .iho 
white  turkey-cock  hei-sclf  she  had  been  foster 
sister  to  Miss  Moyna,  and  Jerry  Maguire  liad 
been  her  fellow-servant  and  swcetheLrt  evei 
s'lice  she  could  remember. 
"    "  '  Jerry,  jewel,'  said  Nelly,  one  fine  evening 


152     THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

as  he  was  sittin'  wid  lier  undhcr  the  sido  of  a 
big  hay-rick,  '  Jcriy,  darlin','  siz  she,  '  I  've 
somethin'  on  my  mind.' 

*' '  Never  say  it  twice,  Nelly,  achorra  ma' 
chree,''  siz  Jerry,  '  but  tell  me  what 's  ailin'  you ; 
ipakc  out  acuishla.'' 

"  '  I  'm  grieved  for  Miss  Moyna,'  siz  Nelly 
*  to  see  her  sweet  purty  feet  spiled  with  'hern 
brogues  ;  an'  sorry  I  am  for  Mr.  Walter  ;  an',  al- 
together, I  'm  greatly  tioubled.' 

"  '  Sure,  you  've  your  own  dear  bye  to  com- 
fort you,  —  an'  that  's  myself,'  siz  Jerry. 

"  '  Ah  !  then,'  siz  she,  '  you  '11  do  what  I  ask 
you  for  poor  Nelly's  sake.' 

" '  If  it  's  possible  to  be  done,  Nelly  ;  any  thing 
in  rason,  avonrneen.'' 

"  '  An'  ain't  you  a  raal  good  dancer,  Jerry, 
and  a  true  Irishman  to  ycr  heart's  core  :  bate 
the  fairies  at  the  dancin',  an'  then  Miss  Moyna 
will  be  rclased  an'  married,  an'  Ncllv  will  bo 
ycr  own  wife  ;  ah  !  sure  ye  '11  not  refuse  me.' 

'" '  Avock  !  we  thank  you  kindly  !  (lO  an' 
be  strangled  by  the  fairies,  is  it  ?  S/iasloue ! 
give  me  any  tiling  of  flesh  and  blood  to  deal 
wid  •  any  thing  mortal,  Nelly  dear,  but  as  for  the 
good  people  '  

" '  An'    you   won't  oblecdge  rae,   then '   said 


i 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  TEET.  153 

Nelly,  biirstin'  out  cryin'.  '  Well,  you  are  not 
wluit  I  tuk  you  for.  I  thought,  when  I  prom- 
ised Jerry  Maguire,  he  was  a  bould  bye,  fearin' 
nothin'  ;  an'  instead  of  that,  he  's  a  mane,  pitiful 
crathur,  or  coward,  that  's  afcard.' 

"  '  Don't  say  that  word  agin,  Nelly  Malone,  if 
you  'd  not  drive  me  mad  at  wanst.  I  'm  no 
more  a  coward  than  any  man,  but  where  's  the 
use  of  throwin'  myself  away  to  the  fairies  ? 
Luk  at  Mr.  Walter,  wid  his  sprained  ancle,  and 
Uncle  Jack,  wid  his  twisted  wrist,  an'  then  tell 
me,  would  n't  I  be  goen'  on  a  fool's  errand  .' 
My  Nelly,  don't  luk  so  vexed,  —  you  know  if 
you  insist,' 

"  Well,  bless  the  women  !  They  bate  the 
world  for  gettin'  their  own  way,  an'  makin'  the 
byes  do  as  they  plase ;  an'  somehow,  between 
scoldin'  and  cryin'  and  coaxin',  Nelly  Malcne 
made  Jerry  Maguire  cliange  his  tune,  and  prom- 
ise to  challenge  the  fairies ;  an',  as  long  as  Nelly 
was  wid  him,  he  had  almost  as  good  a  mind 
to  it  as  herself,  when  wanst  he  'd  promised. 
But  whin  the  maslher  called  her  away,  and  Jerry 
was  left  to  himself,  he  was  in  a  complete  pcr- 
ploxshity.  He  turned  the  thing  over  an'  over  in 
his  mind,  but  there  was  no  crack  to  creep  oj; 
at.     lie  was  not  the  bye  to  run  oiT  his  word, — ■ 


154     THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET- 

but  then  to  lace    the  good  people  !     Jerry   liaa 
but  one  resource  left,  an'  tliat  was,  to  set  out  to 
Father  O'llalloran,  trusting  he  'd  forbid  the  chal 
Icnge  as  a  thing  unlawful,  an'  lay  the  ban  of  the 
church  on  him,  if  he  attempted  it. 

"  He  was  disappointed,  hov  ever.  Father 
O'llalloran  said  the  promise  was  a  rash  one,  yel 
it  must  be  respected  ;  tliat  we  must  keep  faith, 
ihough  it  was  wid  the  father  of  lies  liimself; 
and  that  though  the  matin  wid  the  fairies  was 
not  over  and  above  holy,  the  end,  in  this  case, 
sanctified  the  manes,  an'  there  seemed  no  other 
way  of  riddin'  poor  Moyna  Donovan  of  her  large 
brogues.  So  Jerry,  lookin'  mighty  foolish  and 
downcast,  stood  twistin'  his  canheen  in  his  hands, 
and  then  raisin'  his  head  smart,  as  if  a  thought 
had  jist  struck  him,  asked  if  '  there  was  nothing 
his  riverence  could  give  him  by  waj'  of  a  charm, 
to  hinder  the  good  people  doen'  him  any  harm. 

"  '  When  do  you  mane  to  make  the  thrial  ?  ' 
asked   Father  O'llalloran. 

"  '  This  night,  plasc  Heaven,'  siz  Jerry.  '  ^\'hin 
a  thing  's  to  bo  done,  the  sooner  one  sets  about 
it  the  belter.' 

"  '  There  's  only  one  thing  I  am  do  foi  you,' 
returns  tiie  j)ricst  ;  '  step  home  an'  back  ns  fast 
as  you  can,  and  bring  me  the  little  bottle  I  seen 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE   LARGE   FEET.     155 

In  your  harvest  last  harvest ;  an'  be  sure  there  's 
Bomc  sperrits  in  it.' 

"  .Terry  was  not  long  in  bringing  the  bottle, 
and  when  Father  O'Halloran  tuk  it  up,  he  held 
It  up  to  the  Hght,  an',  '  It  's  too  full  by  ),a.i{^'' 
siz  he. 

"  '  Och  n  hone  !  '  siz  Jerry  ;  '  if  I  'm  to  fact 
the  fairies,  I  'm  sure  I  'd  need  it  every  dhrop.' 

"  '  But  there  's  not  room  for  the  holy  wathcr,' 
siz  Father  O'Halloran,  uncorkin'  the  bottle,  an* 
pourin'  out  a  dacent  share  into  his  own  tumbler, 
which  stood  convaynicnt,  '  I  'm  goen'  to  bless 
the  whiskey ;  and,  whinever  you  're  gettin'  tired 
in  dancin',  jist  take  the  laste  taste  in  life  of 
the  blessed  whiskey,  an'  you  '11  lape  like  a  trout 
in  the  sthrame.'  So  tlie  priest  tuk  a  little  vial 
from  the  chimney,  and  was  pourin'  out  the  holy 
water 

"  '  Ilould,  hould,  your  riverence,'  siz  Jerry, 
stoppiu'  his  hand,  '  sure  one  drop  's  as  good  as 
a  thousand,  an'  if  you  spile  the  whiskey  that 
vmy,  how  will  I  be  able  to  drink  it  ? ' 

" '  Ah !  son  Jerry,'  siz  Father  O'llalloran, 
laughin'  till  his  sides  shook  again,  '  how  can  ye 
spake  in  that  manner  of  the  holy  waihcr,  ye  baa 
number,  you  ? '  But,  however,  he  corked  up  the 
bottle  at  wanst,  and  giv  it  to  Jerry,  recommend- 


\bb  THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  tXEl. 

in'   him  to  say   half  a  duzen  aves,  and  a  duzen 
credes,  before  he  made  tlic  llirial. 

"Well  an'  good,  —  ihe  moon  rose,  an'  jisl 
wlicn  she  was  in  the  hoith  of  her  beauty,  an 
the  flowers  and  birds  in  the  depth  of  their  slum- 
ber, Jerry  Maguire  made  his  appearance  in  this 
very  field,  jist  outside  the  fairy  ring.  A  turnip- 
field  it  was  in  those  days,  though  it  's  spring 
vhate  now.  H-e  did  not  seem  to  have  an  inch 
cf  fearful  flesh  left  about  him,  and  stood  slrikin' 
the  ground  with  his  alpeen,  and  callin'  on  the 
good  people  to  appear  for  full  five  minutes  be- 
fi^re  he  saw  any  tiling  of  them.  At  last  he 
heard  a  low,  grufiish  voice  behind  him,  growlin 
out, 

" '  What  's  your  business  here,  Jerry  Maguire  ? ' 

"  '  The  dancin',  the  dancin','  said  Jerry,  cut- 
tin'  a  caper,  an'  flourishin'  his  alpecn,  to  sliow 
his  bravery  ;  '  sure,  you  know  my  business  well 
enough  ycrself.' 

"'Must  we  thry,  —  must,  we  thry,  —  must  we 
thry  ?  *  run    round  an'  round    him  like  a  voice 
an'  its  echoes  dyin'  ofi'  in  a  fuint  wailin'. 

"  '  Faith,  must  you,  my  darlins,'  siz  Jerry  , 
'  I  'un  not  the  bye  to  bo  thriflcd  wid  ;  so  ma\e 
haste,  an'  begin  at  wansi. 

"  The   moon,  jist   then,  glided  behind  a   big 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET.  15] 

cloud,  that  looked  like  a  heap  of  snow  ;  and 
when  she  came  out  again,  Jerry  saw  a  dozen  o 
two  of  purty  little  crathurs,  dressed  in  all  man 
ner  of  gay  colors,  standin'  in  and  about  the  fairy 
ring.  Jerry  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  touch 
one  of  them,  nor  go  within  the  ring  :  so  siz  he, 
widout  more  ado, 

"  '  The  jig  and  the  fling,  if  you  plase,  an'  I  '11 
dance  my  part  out  here  in  the  turnip-field  ;  you 
can  keep  within  that  little  place  if  you  like, — 
it  's  not  big  enough  for  my  dancin','  siz  he, 
stretchin'  about  wid  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
while  the  fairies  were  consultin'  what  to  do  wid 
him.  There  was  nothing  for  it,  they  found,  buf 
to  give  Jerry  his  own  way,  so  one  of  the  elves 
stood  up  in  the  ring,  and  Jerry  opposite,  in  the 
turnip-field.         >. 

"  Och  !  whisleh  !  I  wish  you  could  have  watch- 
ed Jerry  that  night.  It  would  have  done  your 
heart  good  to  have  seen  his  dancin'!  iNow  pound- 
in'  the  ground  with  his  feet,  as  if  ii  w  /  pavin' 
he  was  ;  now  jiggin'  on  his  toes  "la  uk-  t  as  the 
fairy  itself;  now  roolin'  wid  his  nee-  uU  y<m 'd 
jhink  he  'd  come  back  on  his  seal;  fcLvery  now 
and  then,  ?nask  would  go  a  gr^a  'un-.p,  a.  J 
splash  would  come  the  juice  inio  his  t\  -  ;  but 
what  cared  he  .'     He  'd  the  whiskey  ano    ne  holy 


158     THE  LEGEND  OP  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

vvatlicr  in  his  pocket,  an'  by  an'  by  he  pulled  it 
out,  and  widout  stoppin'  took  a  good  sup,  while 
he  was  balancin'  on  one  foot.  Then  away  he 
went  again,  fresher  than  ever.  Sorry  were  the 
fairies  when  they  saw  this,  for  they  'd  great 
hopes  he  was  gocu'  to  give  in.  But  he  'd  no 
thought  of  such  a  thing ;  and  now,  gettin'  into 
the  sperrit  of  the  fun,  an'  enjoying  the  long  faces 
of  his  enemies,  he  laughed  and  sprang  louder 
and  higher  than  ever.  It  was  in  vain  the  fairies 
tried  to  thrip  him  up,  or  throw  him  down.  One 
of  the  little  crathurs  crept  about  him,  thrying 
to  catch  hould  of  his  ancle  ;  but  Jerry  was  always 
aware  of  them,  and  whisked  away  in  a  moment 
of  time  ;  and  so  they  went  on,  for  three  or  four 
hours. 

"  The  moon  was  beginnin'  *to  set,  an'  the 
fairies  had  not  half  an  hour  to  call  their  own. 
Jerry  took  another  dhritik  from  his  bottle,  which 
the  fairies  scein',  got  mad  ;  and  one  of  them, 
makin'  a  flymg  lape,  lighted  jist  on  Jerry's  arm, 
an'  snatching  the  bottle  out  of  his  liand,  was 
nway  into  the  middle  of  the  fairy  ring  in  no 
time.  But  they  were  too  sharp,  for  themselves 
this  time.  The  elf  wlio  had  the  bottle  was  tryin' 
(o  pull  the  cork  out,  an'  some  of  the  others 
W(;re  crowdin'  round,  tryin'  to  get  it  from  him. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEEl   159 

svhen,  among  them,  they  broke  the  bottle,  and 
jplash  wint  the  blessed  whiskey  over  the  whole 
Df  them.  AUilu  !  they  were  all  gone  !  One  grate 
.;ry  of  anger  an'  pain  they  set  up,  and  then  there 
vi^as.  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  settin'  moon,  the 
ft.isty  fields,  the  pale  light,  straikin'  the  aist,  an' 
icrry  standin',  the  picture  of  dismay,  wid  the 
broKen  bottle  at  his  feet. 

"  Moyna  Donovan  had  cried  herself  to  sleep 
that  night,  after  havin'  heard  that  Walter  Doyne's 
ancle  had  swelled  worse  than  ever.  She  dhram- 
ed  a  pleasant  dhrame,  however.  She  tb.ought  she 
was  in  the  midst  of  the  fairy  court,  an'  that  the 
queen  an'  one  of  her  maids  were  down  on  their 
knees,  unlacin'  the  big  brogues.  Jist  as  they 
were  drawin'  them  off,  a  sweet  strain  of  music 
wint  through  the  apartmei:i,  an'  Moyna  awoke. 
The  light  was  shinin'  full  into  the  windy,  and 
she  jumped  out  of  bed,  when,  —  'Queen  of 
glory !  what  's  this  ?  '  siz  she ;  an'  sure  enough 
there  was  her  own  little  feet,  standin'  as  while 
and  purty  as  ever  on  the  flure. 

"  Great  was  the  joy  of  all  the  parties  consarned, 
as  you  may  well  suppose  ;  an'  the  first  use 
Moyna  made  of  her  feet,  afther  they  were  set  at 
liberty,  was  to  run  off  towai\ls  Walter  Poyne's 
house.     But    she    had    not    gone    far,  when  she 


160     THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  LARGE  FEET. 

met  himself,  comin'  full  of  joy,  to  tell  her  of  the 
miracle  by  which  his  ancle  was  got  well  In  one 
night. 

"  It  was  not  long  before  Father  O'llalloran 
had  a  job ;  an',  indeed,  two  of  them.  At  the 
same  time  and  place  that  he  married  Waller  and 
IMoyna,  he  joined  Jerry  Maguire  and  Nelly  Ma- 
lone.  Plenty  of  fun  there  was  at  the  weddins ; 
dancin'  and  singen',  eatin'  and  drinkcn',  lashins 
and   lavins. 

"  The  fairies  wore  never  seen  again  in  the 
neighbourhood.  May  be  they  were  'shamed  at 
bein'  bate  by  a  poor  Kerry  laborer ;  may  be  they 
were  afeard  of  Father  O'llalloran  an'  the  holy 
wather.     Any  way,  nobody  ever  saw  them  again. 

"  But  ever  an'  afthcr,  the  ring  was  left  wid  an 
unturned  sod  :  and  tl.a  neiiihbours  never  thouclit 
It  over  an'  above  lucky  lo  be  boastin'  or  talkin' 
proud  of  themselves,  lest  they  should  be  gifted 
wid  something  even  worse  than  the  largo  feet.* 


ANCIENT     REMINISCENCES. 

BY   THE   AUTHOR    OF  THE   "THREE    EXPERIMENTS,'     &C. 

In  King's  Chapel,  in  Tremont  Street,  Boston,  is 
a  monument  to  the  memory  of  Frances  Shirley, 
wife  of  Governor  Shirley.  There  are  none  of 
the  contemporaries  of  this  lady  remaining.  We 
know  but  little  of  her  except  from  this  m.onument, 
and  the  faint  and  visionary  sketches  that  become 
more  and  more  indistinct,  as  they  pass  through 
successive  generations.  After  a  panegyric  on 
her  virtues,  this  record  follows  : 

"  Near  this  excellent  mother,  lie  the  mortal 
remains  of  b<^r  second  daughter,  Frances  Bollen, 
late  iije  wxie  of  William  Bollen,  Esquire,  the 
Kmg's  Advocate  in  the  Vice-Admiralty  Court  of 
the  Province  of  Massachusetts,  whose  virtue  and 
great  beauty,  prudence,  piety,  cultivated  under- 
standing, and  gentle  manners,  were  the  deligh. 
of  fll  while  she  lived. 

"  The  too  brief  space  of  her  life  was  passed 
ere  she  had  attained  her  twenty-fourth  year,  and 
11 


1C2  ANCIENT   REMINIPCE>XK5. 

she  died  on  the  12lh  of  Tilarch,  1741,  deeply 
lamented  by  her  husband,  parents,  and  friends." 

It  is  truly  said  we  live  a  second  time  in  our 
cliildrcn.  Of  the  daughter  of  this  ladv  and 
granddaughter  of  Governor  Shirley,  trances 
Shirley  BoUen,  there  is  much  known  that  is  in- 
teresting. A  friend  of  hers  is  still  living  at  an 
advanced  age. 

Her  mother  died  while  she  was  very  young, 
and  her  father,  being  appointed  agent  for  Massa- 
chusetts to  the  court  of  St.  James,  went  to  Eng- 
land, and  left  her  to  be  educated  in  this  country. 
The  property  which  she  was  to  inherit  made  it 
proper  to  appoint  guardians  of  distinguished  re- 
spectability. These  were  Judge  Trowbridge, 
Judge  Russell,  and  her  uncle,  Mr.  Temple. 

With  Judge  Trowbridge,  at  Cambridge,  she 
principally  resided.  Her  wealth  and  beauty  at- 
racted  admirers  at  an  early  age;  but  it  was  well 
understood,  that  her  father  was  averse  to  her 
forming  any  niulrimonial  connexion  in  America, 
and  that  he  looked  forward  to  her  making  a 
splendid  alliance  in  England. 

The  early  part  of  her  life  was  passf.  i  m  inno- 
cent gayoty,  imcloudcd  by  thought  of  the  future. 
She  formed  those  associations  with  friends  (jf  her 
cwn  se.\,  to  which  the  youthful  mind  so  naturally 


ANCIENT    REMINISCENCES  IG3 

turns,  and  felt  as  if  her  world  of  happiness  existed 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  At  the  age  of 
eishteen,  she  received  a  summons  from  l-er 
father  to  come  to  him;  and,  with  deep  sensibility, 
she  parted  from  Mrs.  Trowbridge,  who  had  sup 
plied  to  her  the  place  of  her  own  mother.  There 
\»as  no  mother  to  welcome  her  to  the  strange 
land  to  which  she  was  going ;  of  her  father  she 
had  but  a  slight  remembrance  ;  and,  if  friends 
were  in  store,  they  must  be  new  ones.  She  made 
a  thousand  promises  to  write  constantly ;  and  said^ 
"  that  to  lay  open  her  whole  heart "  to  those  she 
left  behind  "  would  be  her  greatest  solace." 
Soon  after  her  arrival  in  England,  letters  came; 
but  they  were  not  the  transcripts  of  her  warm  and 
affectionate  heart  ;  it  \\as  evident  to  her  friends, 
that  they  were  written  in  a  depressed  and  con- 
strained manner.  At  length,  all  correspondence 
ceased,  and  they  heard  of  her  only  by  report.  It 
was  soon  understood,  that  her  father  did  not  wish 
her  to  continue  her  intercourse  with  lier  Ameri- 
can friends,  and  was  continually  haunted  by  fears 
that  she  might  defeat  his  ambitious  projects  by 
forming  some  alliance  beneath  her.  This  led 
him  to  keep  a  constant  guard  upon  her  move- 
ments, ind  to  prohibit  her  from  general  society. 
One  solace,  however,  he  allowed  her,  and  that 


104  A^'CIENT    KEMI^'ISCE^'CES 

vas,  the  privilege  of  passing  a  few  dnys  ocoa' 
sionally  wilh  Mrs.  Western,  a  female  friend,  of 
great  respectability  and  intluence.  This  lady  be- 
came fondly  attached  to  Frances,  who  acquired, 
from  her  elegant  and  cultivated  manners,  a  polish 
that  she  could  not  have  gained  in  her  father's 
family. 

]\Irs.  Western  resided  a  few  miles  from  the 
city,  and  it  \vas  happiness  to  hei*  young  friend 
to  quit  its  noise  and  dust  and  enjoy  those  scenes 
in  the  country,  that  reminded  her  of  her  early 
walks  in  Cambridge,  and  the  winding  couree  of 
Charles  river.  Mrs.  Western  had  sons,  but  they 
were  absent  from  home,  and  the  father's  appre- 
hensions, with  regard  to  them,  seem  not  to  liave 
been  awakened.  One  of  them  returned  home 
on  a  visit  to  his  mother,  while  Frances  was  stay- 
ing with  her.  Mrs.  Western  immediately  made 
arrangements  to  restore  the  young  lady  to  her 
father's  residence  the  next  day,  knowing  his 
extreme  anxiety  on  the  suliject. 

The  breakfast  hour,  wiih  her,  was  one  of 
clioorful  meeting.  She  took  her  seat  as  usual  at 
;iie  table,  and,  after  waiting  some  time  in  vain 
for  the  appearance  of  her  guest,  sent  a  summons 
to  her  room.  The  messenger  returned  with  the 
intelligence,  that  she  was  not  there,  and  that  the 


ANCIENT    REMINISCENCES.  165 

room  d'id  not  appear  to  have  been  occupied  dur 
ing  the  night.  She  sent  to  her  son's  room  ;  the 
young  student  was  not  to  be  found,  and  the  tiuth 
flashed  upon  her  mind,  —  tliey  had  eloped  to- 
getliLT  !  Nothing  remained  but  to  send  a  de- 
spatch to  the  father,  acquainting  him  with  her 
suspicions. 

He  lost  no  time  in  repairing  to  her  mansion, 
and  loaded  lier  with  reproaches.  His  accusa- 
tions were  violent  and  unfounded,  and  he  more 
than  hinted,  that  she  was  accessory  to  the  elope- 
ment. Mrs.  Western  preserved  a  calm  and  dig- 
nified deportment,  and  replied,  "  that  the  meas- 
ure was  as  unpleasant  to  herself  as  to  him  ;  that 
her  son  had  not  yet  finished  his  education,  and 
a  matrimonial  connexion  might  prove  a  blight  to 
his  future  prospects  and  exertions."  She  also 
observed,  "  that  he  was  not  of  age,  and  could 
not,  for  some  time,  come  into  possession  of  his 
own  property.  That,  as  now  the  thing  was  irre- 
mediable, they  had  better  submit  to  it  with  mag- 
nanimity." 

Necessity  is  a  never-failing  counsellor.  The 
father  contented  himself  with  solemnly  proicsling 
he  never  would  forgive,  or  see,  liis  daughter. 
Mrs.  Western,  on  the  contrary,  received  tho 
young  couple  with  gentleness  when  thev  return 


IGG  ANCIENT    PEMlNISCENfEP. 

ed,  which  ihcy  did  after  a  few  days'  absence, 
and  endeavoured,  by  malernal  counsel,  to  obviate 
the  ev'ls  of  this  rash  and  disobedient  step. 

Years  passed  on,  and  they  had  several  chil- 
dren. Though  tlie  father  still  adhered  to  his 
determination  of  not  forgiving  his  daughter,  in 
the  tenderness  of  lier  husband  and  his  mother, 
and  surrounded  by  blooming  and  healthy  chil- 
dren, her  life  was  tranquil  and  happy. 

Some  months  after  the  birth  'of  the  youngest 
child,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Western  set  out  on  a  jour- 
ney, taking  the  infant  with  them.  At  an  inn, 
where  they  stopped,  JMr.  ^Vestern  got  out  of  the 
phaeton.  At  that  moment  the  horses,  which  were 
usually  perfectly  gentle,  took  fright,  and  ran  with 
his  wife  and  child,  notsvilhstanding  all  his  own 
and  his  servant's  attempts  to  stop  them. 

The  mother's  first  thought  was  for  her  infimt, 
and  seizing  an  opportunity  when  the  speed  of  the 
horses  was  a  little  checked,  by  a  hill,  she  threw 
it  upon  a  hedge  of  foliage.  A  mother's  cars 
are  quick,  she  distinguished  the  cry  of  the  child  ; 
it  was  not  one  of  distress,  and  she  felt  now 
cournac,  and,  springing  herself  from  the  carriage 
with  but  slight  injury,  was  able  to  hasten  imnie- 
diatt;!y  back  to  recover  the  child.  She  found  it 
safe  and  unhurt,  and  it   recognised   its  agitated 


ANCIENT    REMlNISCEx\CES.  167 

mother  with  the  joyous  welcome  of  infant  affec- 
tion. Witli  a  heart  filled  with  gratitude  for  their 
preservation,  she  walked  on  to  meet  her  hus- 
band, knowing  he  must  be  enduring  dreadful 
anxiety. 

The  first  person  she  met  was  her  own  servant 
'  We  are  safe  and    uninjured,"   she  exclaimed 
"  hasten  back  and  tell  vour  master." 

He  neither  moved  nor  spoke,  and  as  she  looked 
m  his  face  she  •perceived  signs  of  deep  distress. 
"  What  has  happened  ?  what  have  you  to  tell  ?" 
she  exclaimed.  He  was  unable  to  evade  her 
eager  inquiries,  and  the  information  he  gave  v/as 
abrupt  and  overwhelming.  IMr.  Western,  in  en- 
deavouring to  stop  the  horses,  as  they  rushed 
furiously  forward,  received  a  violent  blow  on  his 
breast,  from  the  pole  of  the  carnage,  and  fell 
dead  on  the  spot.  His  wretched  wife  fainted 
at  the  intelligence,  and  so  dreadful  was  the 
shock,  that  for  many  months  her  reason  was  par- 
tially estranged.  Her  father  could  not  resist  this 
accumulation  of  distress.  He  went  immediately 
to  see  her,  and  continued  the  intercourse,  sooth- 
ing  her  grief  by  parental  tenderness. 

Aftei  these  melancholy  events  took  place,  she 
resiiled  wholly  in  the  country,  devoting  herself 
to  the  education  of  her  children.     She  died  many 


168  ANCIKNT    UEMIXISCENSES. 

years  since  ;    and    only    one    of   her   American 
friends  still  survives  licr. 

We  hope  this  little  narrative  is  sufTiciently 
interesting  to  make  one  of  her  early  letters  ac- 
ccptab  c.  It  was  addressed  to  the  friend  just 
alluded  to,  after  returning  from  a  visit  she  had 
been  making  her.  The  contrast  it  forms  be- 
tween the  thoughtless  gayety  of  a  girl,  and  the 
heart-rending  events  of  after  life,  is  very  striking. 
The  local  allusions  it  contains'  to  people  who 
existed  before  the  Revolution,  as  well  as  tlie 
mode  of  travelling  it  describes,  making  a  journey 
from  Nevvburyport  to  Boston  occupy  nearly  a 
day  and  a  half,  have  something  of  a  picturesque 
effect  in  contrast  with  the  present  times,  and 
modes  of  travelling  by  railroads  and  steam. 

"  Cambridge,  17C2 
"  Dear  Sibby, 
"  Last  evening  I  heard  of  an  opportunity  to 
send  to  you,  and  I  cannot  omit  writing ;  but 
must  give  you  a  short  account  of  my  journey 
back,  which  was  not  very  agreeable,  on  account 
of  the  roads.  You  cannot  imagine  how  bad  the 
travelling  was,  —  we  could  only  walk  the  hoi-se 
for  several  miles,  and  just  as  we  got  to  Parker's 
river,  one  of  the  wheels  of  the  chaise  came  oiT 


ANCIENT    REMINISCENCES,  169 

It  look  some  time  to  get  it  on  again,  and  by 
tho  time  we  entered  Rowley  woods  I  was  heartily 
tired.  They  looked  dark  and  dismal,  and  I 
thought  of  nothing  but  robbers,  and  determined 
if  we  were  attacked,  to  surrender  even  my  N. 
P  ear-rings  to  save  my  life.  Well,  all  at  once 
I  saw  a  man  on  horseback,  coming  towards  us. 
I  began  to  tremble,  but  who  do  you  think  it 
proved  ?  why,  Mr.  Jonathan  Jackson !  of  all  per- 
sons in  the  world,  the  least  like  a  robber  !  We 
had  a  little  pleasant  conversation,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded, —  but  did  not  get  to  Beverly  till  quite 
dark.  The  next  morning  we  left  early,  found 
the  roads  much  better,  and  arrived  at  Cambridge 
about  one  o'clock. 

"  To-day  is  Sunday,  and  we  have  had  a  ser- 
mon upon  dress,  from  Mr.  Appleton.  Upon  my 
word,  I  think  he  made  it  out  very  well;  for  he 
told  us  people  should  dress  according  to  their 
rank,  and  not  go  beyond  their  circumstances. 
He  touched  a  little  upon  the  propriety  of  our 
being  subject  to  the  other  sex,  and  gave  is  a 
hint  upon  silence.  I  suppose,  my  dear,  yov  will 
think  I  could  not  help  taking  this  to  myself,  I 
confess  it  touched  me  a  little,  but  I  shall  soon 
recover  from  it ;  for  it  is  so  natural  to  my  tongtie 
to  go,  that  I  cannot  easily  stop  its  motion. 


170  ANCIKNT    KEMlMStKNCKS. 

"  Here  oin  I,  sighing  and  moaning  thai  we  hai 
not  some  of  this  good  weather  while  I  was  with 
you  at  N.  P.  I  liked  the  place  so  well  that  I 
had  quite  a  curiosity  to  see  how  it  looked  when 
the  sun  was  out. 

"  I  had  almost  forgot  to  tell  you  how  much 
my  N.  P.  ear-rings  were  admired.  I  thought 
of  them  durin"-  the  sermon,  and  ventured  to  wear 
them  aaain  in  the  afternoon.  How  I  want  tc 
take  a  serious  w\alk  with  your  ladyship  through 
those  long  rope-walks,  —  a  walk  ?  no,  I  think 
the  weather  is  cool  enough  for  a  run.  I  don't 
believe  you  have  had  any  knots  tied  in  youT 
handkerchief  since  I  came  away.  Only  think  of 
my  forgetting  to  deliver  a  message  from  ]\Ir.  ]\I. 
while  I  was  at  N.  P.  I  am  positively  afraid  tc 
walk  out  lest  I  should  ]wp  upon  him,  and  he 
should  ask  me  about  it.  1  must  beg  the  favoi 
of  you  to  do  it  for  me.  It  was  to  ask  youi 
father  if  he  received  a  letter  by  one  Mr.  White- 
field  }  He  is  a  great  preacher,  and  quite  the 
fashion ;  they  say  he  makes  people  cry  and 
laugh  in  the  same  moment ;  pray  go  and  heat 
him.  and  write  me  word,  which  you  do  moS'l 
heartily,  cry  or  laugh  } 

"  The  spring  is  delightful,  the  trees  arc  commg 
out  m  blossoms  and  Chftilos  river  really  looks 


ANCIEXT    REMINISCENCES.  171 

majestic.  How  I  wish  you  were  here  !  Write 
soon,  and  don't  forget  the  message  about  Mr 
Whitefield, 

"  "i'our  sincere  friend, 

"  Frances  Siijcixy  Bollen." 


STANZAS,   TO   A   LADY. 
I. 

Ah,  Lady  !  could  1  deem  my  liumble  lay 

Wortliy  the  pensive  lustre  of  thine  eye ; 
Could  I  awake  the  music  of  that  day 

When  Beauty,  as  some  creature  from  the  sky, 
Stirred  the  deep  fountains  of  my  heart,  and  bade 

Its  waters  leap,  as  to  some  wand  divine, — 
Until  I  R'll  its  mystery  had  made 

New  liope,  new  joy,  a  new  existence,  mine; 
How  would  1  rush  to  strike  my  palsied  lyre. 
And  wake  to  melody,  once  more,  each  quivering  wire 

II. 

But  1  have  seen  the  darkness  of  our  years 

Shadowing  our  youth,  —  tliat  withering  eclipse 
That  comes  upon  the  spirit  in  its  tears, 

When  the  still  prayer  of  Woe  is  on  the  lips,  — 
Has  fallen  upon  me,  till  I  felt  no  more 

'T  was  mine  to  tune  my  harp,  or  touch  its  strings 
No  longer  to  that  ecstasy  to  soar, 

Where  new  joy  lights  the  Poet's  lifting  wmgs  I 
Ah  .  thou    canst  tell  the  mystery  !     To  thee,  — 
But  why  tell  thcc  the  sorrowing  tale .'  —  't  was  thine 
To  bend  o'er  Love's  grave,  in  lliy  mourning,  —  e'en  as 
mine ! 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  THE  SEA-FOWL. 

It  is  "egging  time,"  —  the  sea-fowls  nest 

In  the  cleft  of  the  rock  is  spen, 
And  she    who  sat  on  the  cean  breast, 

With  folded  wing  in  the  sunlight  sheen, 
Hath  laid  her  eggs  where  the  rock  is  high, 
And  the  white  wave  roars  as  it  dasiies  by. 

'T  is  a  wild,  wild  spot,  —  in  circles  wide. 

From  a  thousand  isles,  the  sea-birds  come, — 

For  they  rear  their  young  by  the  water  side. 
In  the  very  dash  of  tlie  stormy  foam- 

'T'is  there  they  learn  on  the  wave  to  play, 

And  sport  themselves  in  the  sno^y  spray. 

On  that  nigtiest  cliff  is  the  eagies  nest. 
Above  the  wave,  but  within  its  roar ; 

And  proudly  the  stern  bird  eyes  the  rest 
In  their  noise  and  gambols  along  the  shore. 

lie  's  an  old,  white-headed,  lonely  bird, 

And  he  loudest  screams  when  the  storm  is  lieard 

He  darts  from  the  cliff  with  a  piercing  eye, 
For  he  marked  fioni  afar  his  destined  prey; 

And  he  cleaves  at  once  the  cloudy  sky. 
And  dips  his  beak  in  tlie  yielding  spray, 

Or  the  prize  that  the  fish -hawk  screaming  bears, 

The  pirate  eagle  remorseless  tears. 


174  HAUNTS   OF  THE    SEA    FOWL. 

Ye  climb  not  there,  —  'twere  a  daring  thing 
To  mount  to  that  eyrie  built  on  high, 

Where  the  eagle  plumes  her  dark-gray  wing, 
And  soars  aloft  to  the  burning  sky; 

For  the  rock,  witli  bleaching  bones  is  white, 

And  the  eagle  by,  for  her  young  to  fight. 

Ye  're  a  daring  race,  —  but  ye  climb  not  lltere } 
The  eagle's  eyrie  ye  may  not  reac-Ii; 

To  the  while  gulls  nest  ye  may  boldly  dare, 
And  seize  the  eggs  'midst  her  sad,  wild  screech. 

Yes,  climb  ye  in  to  the  rocky  cave. 

Where  the  sea-fowl's  nest  is  dashed  by  the  wave 

It  is  "egging  time,"  —  and  t]:e  rocks  are  h'gh ; 

But  the  boys  were  bred  by  the  ione  s(fa-side  ; 
They  are  sure  of  foot,  and  true  of  eve. 

And  know  where  the  f^ull  her  eggs  may  hide; 
And  well  do  they  love  tlie  rocky  sliore. 
Where  they  hear  the  sound  of  the  ocean  roar. 


TO  A  WILD  VIOLET,  IN  MAKCH 

BY    S.   G.    GOODRICH. 

My  pretty  flower,  how  cam'st  thou  here? 
Around  thee  all  is  sad  and  sere,— 
The  brown  leaves  tell  of  winter's  breath, 
And  all  but  thee  of  doom  and  death. 

The  naked  forest  shivering  sio-hs,  — 
On.  yonder  hill  the  snow-wreath  lies, 
And  all  is  bleak  ;  —  then  say,  sweet  flower 
How  cam'st  thou  here  in  such  an  nour' 

No  tree  unfolds  its  timid  bud, 

Chill  pours  the  hill-side's  lurid  flood, 

The  tuneless  forest  all  is  dumb; 

llow  then,  fair  violet,  didst  thou  come? 

Spring  hath  not  scattered  yet  her  flowers, 
But  lingers  still  in  southern  bowers ; 
No  gardener's  art  hath  cherished  thee,— 
For  wild  and  lone  thou  springest  free. 

Thou  springest  here  to  man  unknown. 
Waked  into  life  by  God  alone! 
Sweet  flower,  thou  tellest  well  thy  birth,— 
Thou  cam'st  from  Heaven,  though  soiled  in  earth 


176  TO    A    V.'II.D    VIOLET    IN    MAECH. 

Thou  tell'st  of  Ilim  whose  boundless  power, 
Speaks  into  birth  a  world  or  flower ; 
And  dost  a  God  as  clearly  prove, 
As  all  the  orbs  in  Heaven  that  move 


4 


"SHOW  us  THE  father.'^* 

BY   MRS.   SICOURNEY. 

Have  ye  not  seen  Ilim,  when  through  parted  snows 
Wakes  the  first  kindlinirs  of  tlie  vernal  crreen  ? 

When  'neath  its  modest  veil  the  arbutus  blows, 
And  the  blue  violet  bursts  its  mossy  screen  ? 

Wlien  the  wild  rose,  that  asks  no  florist's  care, 

Unfoldeth  its  rich  leaves,  have  ye  not  seen  Him  there 


Have  ye  not  seen  Him,  when  tlie  infant's  eye, 
Throujrh  its  bright  sapphire  window,  shows  the  mind  ? 

When  in  the  trembling  of  the  tear  or  si^'jh 

Floats  forth  that  essence,  trembling  and  refined  ? 

Saw  ye  not  Him,  —  the  Autlior  of  our  trust. 

Who  breathed  the  breath  of  life  into  a  frame  of  dust  ? 

Have  ye  not  heard  Him,  when  the  tuneful  rill 
Casts  off  its  icy  chains,  and  leaps  away  ? 

In  tliunders  echoing  loud  from  hill  to  hill? 
lii  song  of  birds,  at  break  of  summer's  day  ? 

Or  in  the  Ocean's  everlasting  roar, 

Battling    the    old,    gray  rocks,  that    sternly   guard   his 
shore  ? 

*  Sec  ^t  .!op.!i  siv.  3. 

12 


173  SHOW    US    THE    FEATHEIU 

When  in  the  stiUness  of  the  Sabbath  morn. 
The  week's  dread  cares  in  tranquil  slumber  rest, 

When  in  the  heart   the  holy  thought  is  born, 

And  Heaven's  high  impulse  warms  the  waiting  breast, 

Have  ye  not  fell  Him,  when  your  voiceless  prayer 

Swelled   out  in   tones   of  praise,  announcing  God  was 
there  ? 

Shoto  us  the  Fatlicr !     If  3'e  fail  to  trace 
His  chariot,  wlicn  the  stars  majestic  roll, 

His  pencil,  'mid  earth's  loveliness  and  grace, 
His  presence,  in  the  sabballi  of  the  soul, 

How  can  ye  see  Him,  till  the  day  of  dread, 

When,  to  assembled  worlds,  the  Uook  of  Doom  Is  read 


I 


I 


THE   LYRES   OF   OLD 


BY    W.    \V.    MORLAND. 


The  lyres  of  olden  time,  — how  silent  now! 
Shattered  are  all  their  strings  ;  —  the  hands  that  sweot 
Those  chords  in  glorious  days,  — when  thousands  wept 
O'er  strains  of  woe,  or  bade  their  spirits  bow 
'  In  adoration,  while  some  hymn  tdivine 
Was  chanted  slow;  or,  filled  with  fiery  wine, 
Sang  the  old  festal  songs,  —  then  softer  flowing, 
The  thrilling  voice  of  youthful  lover  glowing ;  — 
Or  in  stern  notes  the  warrior  god  breathed  out 
To  martial  men  the  battle-waking  shout  1 
Those  hands  are  powerless;  —mingled  with  the  dust 
Each  bard  of  those  famed  days ;  -  yet,  though  the  rust 
Of  ages  cankers  every  tombstone  o'er. 
Their  names  and  glory  brighten  more  and  more. 
Though  Homer's  fingers  touch  not  now  the  string, 
Still  in  our  cars  his  mighty  numbers  ring  ;  — 
And,  if  the  gentle  Sappho's  tongue  is  mute, 
And  hushed  the  music  of  the  Dorian  flute, 
The  enraptured  poet,  while  he  muses  long, 
^  And,  all  entranced,  glows  o'er  the  flowing  song,— 

\  Imagines  still  he  hears  the  same  rich  lays. 

Warbled  by  voices  of  those  olden  days. 
But  't  is  not  so,  —  the  Teian  lyre,  unstrung, 
Has  long  unused  and  uiidelighting  hung,  — 


180  THE   lA'KES    OF   OLt>. 

lis  potent  master  gone  ;  —  hut  who  can  tell ' 
Some  new  Anacreon  may  take  again 

The  long-neglected  harp,  and  weave  a  spell 

Round  human  spirits;—  tiien,  not  framed  in  vain, 

Tiie  song  sliall  swell  responsive, —  all  srouD'l 

ShiJl  seem  some  charmed  land,  some  faary  ground 


THE  GRAVE  OF  MARQUETTE.* 

BY   THE  AUTHOR   OF   "  MIUIAM." 

MtTRMVR,  ye  waves  of  Michigan,  low  hymns 
Of  requiem  round  that  lone  and  tombless  gravP  ! 
And  let  no  blasts  your  rising  waters  dash 
With  heedless  fury  o'er  the  hallowed  spot 
Where,  'mid  the  sands  reposing,  lie  the  bones 
Of  one,  whose  cradle  rocked  in  sunny  France 
Men  have  grown  old  and  died,  their  children's  sons 
Have  risen  and  passed  like  shadows,  since  that  grav« 
Was  by  a  few  rude  hands  in  silence  dug, 
Close  by  thy  waters  blue,  old  Michigan ! 
Yet,  though  thy  waves  with  ceaseless  homage  comff 
To  die  in  whispers  on  that  hallowed  beach, 
Touching  almost  the  good  man's  resting  place ; 
Never, — so  runs  the  tale, —  hath  billow  kissed 
The  sands,  that  hide  his  bones  from  gaze  profane. 
Where  oft  the  pebbles  felt  the  oozing  wave, 
Ever  the  dry,  warm  sunshine  sleeps  serene  : 
Or,  when  the  tempest  sweeps  the  foaming  lake, 
The  very  winds, —  whose  steeds  man  may  not  bridle,— 
Touch  with  no  rude,  disturbing  breath  that  grave  ! 

What  glorious  hero  sleeps  beneath  ?     What  son 
Of  laughing,  warlike  France  e'er  wandered  hither, 


*  See  North  American  Review  for  January,  1839,  page  63. 


182  TlIE   GRAVE    OF   MARQUETTE, 

All  flushed  with  youth  and  wild  with  enterprise, 
Reckless  and  light  as  are  the  winds  themselves  ? 
How  died  the  stranger  'mid  these  lonely  wilds  ? 
Bore  he  bright,  deadly  weapons?     Came  lus_ death 
From  the  bare  arm,  or  from  the  sounding  bow, 
Raised  by  the  sullen  red  man  'mid  iiis  wrongs  i 
Died  he  in  wrath  ?  died  he  in  blood  ?  the  man 
Upon  whose  grave  some  unseen  angel  sits 
Smiling  and  waving  still  her  snowy  wings. 
While  peace  and  reverence  fall  in  dews  around  r 
\\'hat  sought    he    here?     fame?    glittering    wealth •*    a 
crown  ? 

Hear  how  the  wanderer  lived  !  hear  how  he  died ! 
Hearts  did  ho  seek  through  toils  and  dangers  fierce, 
Hearts  for  iiis  Saviour's  love ;  and  on,  —  still  on,  — 
bpeaKmj^  of  love  and  peace  he  wandered  slow ; 
Up  tlie  wild,  unknown  streams,  through  the  deep  forest, 
And  o'er  the  mighty  lake,  w^ith  weary  frame, 
But  with  a  trusting  spirit,  on  he  fared  ; 
And  the  poor  Indian  loved  the  poorer  priest. 
Then  came  his  hour.     He  bade  them  turn  his  prow 
Where  the  lone  stream  came  murmurine  from  the  hills. 
Pouring  its  simple  tribute  to  the  lake  ; 
There,  on  the  untrodden  beach,  he  went  apart. 
And  bowed  him  down  to  l>ray.     Cold  death-damps  stood 
Upon  his  holy  brow  ;  his  failing  limbs 
Trembled  beneath  the  martyr,  yet  no  hand 
Of  mortal  strength  sustained  the  clay  that  thus 
Its  glorious  tenant  silently  gave  up  ! 
The  blue  sky  o'er  his  head,—  the  flitting  birds, — 
Perchance  the  wild  deer,  pausing  ere  he  drank, — 


THE    Gil  AVE    UK    MARCICETTE.  18S 

/I  lone  beheld  the  stranger  as  he  knelt, 

Tliought  of  his  distant  home,  and,  while  the  sound 

Of  murmurinij  waves  stole  fainter  on  his  ear, 

IV'lt  as  if  Heaven  were  home,  —  and,  'mid  his  prajcra 

Peaceful  sank  down  to  find  the  vision  true  ! 

They  came,  his  followers  few ;  with  hasty  search 

They  found  him  bowed  ;  and  on  Iiis  placid  lips 

Devotion  lingering  with  a  holy  smile ; 

But  the  worn  frame  was  cold,  the  heart  was  still 

Seiving  and  praying,  their  meek  friend  had  died. 

And  in  that  spot,  thus  sanctified,  they  made 

The  Missionary's  lone  and  hallowed  grave. 

Angel  of  Death !  oh  !  could  thy  summons  thus 

Find  each  tried  soul  with  pinion  ready  plumed, 

Struggling  to  soar  before  thou  break  st  tlie  bond, 

Half  lilted  to  the  skies  by  faith  and  prayer! 


MOUNT    AUBURN. 

BY    THIS   AUTHOR  OF  ''SKETCHES   OK   THE   OLD    MASTERS." 

On  the  27th  of  June,  1832,  the  first  monument 
was  reared  at  Mount  Auburn,  with  this  inscrip- 
tion : —  "In  memory  of  Hannah  Adams,  the 
first  tenant  of  Mount  Auburn." 

To  tliose  who  knew  her  modes  of  thought, 
there  is  something  peculiarly  congenial  in  thia 
tribute.  There  are  many  who  care  but  little  about 
the  dust  that  has  encumbered  the  immortal  spirit. 

I  will  not  ask,  that  fragrant  ilowors 
Sliould  o'er  my  lowly  grave  be  shed; 

I  '11  trust  to  nature's  vernal  showers 
To  throw  a  mantle  o"er  the  dead. 

For  what  to  me  is  that  lone  spot  ? 

It  boots  not  where  the  form  is  laid  ; 
"  D«st  unto  dust"  must  be  its  lot; 

To  earth  her  tribute  must  be  paid. 

Take  then,  O  earlli,  whate'er  is  thine, 

And  in  thy  bosom  let  it  sleep ; 
Tliou  canst  not  claim  the  soul  divine, 

Tl»c  joyous  spirit   canst   not  keep. 


I 

I 


(S®li^¥ERfflfp[L^-irn@K! 


t  •  •        • 


•  •  •  .," 


•       •     • 


9IOUNI"    AUUURN.  185 

When  Miss  Adams  spoke  of  those  who  were 
gone,  there  seemed  to  be  a  feehng  that  their 
spirits  were  hovering  round  her. 

A  friend,  after  returning  from  a  tour  to  the 
fiouth,  was  describing  the  burying-grounds  in 
Savannah,  Mobile,  and  New  Orleans,  where  "  the 
beautiful  exotics,  that  in  our  northern  climes  we 
cultivate  with  so  niuch  labor,  geraniums,  myrtles, 
and  jasmines,  appear  to  plant  themselves  spon- 
taneously on  the  graves,  and  afford  a  striking 
contrast,  by  their  freshness  and  gay  colors,  to  the 
often  decaying  monuments  v/hich  enclose  the 
unconscious  dead." 

'•  How  do  you  know  they  are  unconscious  ?  " 
said  she,  with  animation ;  "  it  seems  to  me,  that 
I  should  at  least  dream,  if  I  were  buried  in  such 
a  spot." 

Her  love  of  flowers  seemed  to  be  a  part  of 
her  existence.  ]\Iany  were  the  young,  fair  hands 
that  decked  her  humble  apartment  with  these 
ofTcrings, 

"  Yet  spangled  with  tlie  morning  dew." 

There  was  one,  who  delighted  to  quit  the  cir- 
cles of  fashion  and  sit  at  her  feet  ;  one  who 
seemed  early  consecrated  to  holiness,  and  in 
whose  delicate  frame   were,   too  obviously,   the 


18(5  MOUNT  AIIBUKN. 

symptoms  of  premature  decay.  We  have  seen 
her,  with  the  sacred  book  in  her  hand,  gently 
bending  over  the  aged  woman,  and  reading  words 
of  \\k  and  comfort ;  —  words  that  not  only  gave 
peace  to  the  last  moments  of  her  venerable 
friend,  but  filled  her  own  with  faith  and  joy. 

The  monument  at  Mount  Auburn  will  stand 
as  a  record  of  the  feeling  and  sentiment  of 
Miss  Adams's  contemporaries.  "\^'^e  think  it  is 
the  first  public  tribute  of  the  kind,  in  this  coun- 
try, to  femn.le  worlh  and  talent.  There  is  some- 
tiling  more  touching,  and  more  poetical  in  this 
removal  of  her  remains  to  the  beautiful  spot 
and  chissic  monument  prepared  for  them,  than 
in  all  the  glare  of  pubHc  homage  that  crowned 
the  living  MorelU  in  the  "  Eternal  City." 

In  the  following  account  will  be  recognised 
the  original  Corinne  of  Madame  de  Stael. 

"This  day,  (the  31st  of  August,  1776,)  Maria 
Maddalena  Morelli,  called  Gorilla  Olimpica  by  the 
Academy  of  the  Arcades,  was  crowned  in  the " 
Capitol.  Petrarch  and  Pcrfetti  were  the  last  Ital- 
ian pocls  who  obtained  this  honor,  till  it  w&s  con- 
ferred in  the  [jrcsent  day.  Corilla  Olimpica  has 
long  gained  the  admiration  of  Italy  by  her  extem- 
pore verses  on  any  subject  proposed.  After  un- 
dergoing the  necessary  literary  examinations,  pre- 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  187 

ceding  thai  ceremony,  in  the  presence  of  more 
than  twenty  ladies  of  the  first  distinction,  twenty- 
five  foreigners  of  rank,  and  three  hundred  per- 
S'^ns  of  known  erudition,  with  the  greatest  ap- 
])lause,  she  was  this  day  conducted  to  the  Capitol 
b}  the  Countesses  CardeUi,  Dandini,  and  Ginnasi. 
When  she  entered,  she  kneeled  to  the  conserva- 
tors who  were  sitting  under  a  canopy;  and,  after 
the  usual  Latin  forms,  the  Chevalier  Jean  Paul  de 
Cinque  placed  the  laurel  crown  on  her  head  ; 
after  which  the  Chevalier  John  Baptist  Conci  reg- 
istered the  act  of  her  coronation  in  the  public 
registers,  under  the  discharge  of  one  hundred 
pieces  of  cannon.  Several  members  of  the  Acad- 
emy of  the  Arcades  read  pieces  of  their  own 
composition,  and  three  questions  were  proposed 
to  Corilla,  who  answered  in  verse,  with  an  elo- 
quence and  vivacity  which  surprised  all  who  were 
present."  —  Annual  Register,  for  1776. 

We  almost  wish  that  Miss  Adams  could  have 
possessed  the  gift  of  the  ancient  seers,  and  beheld 
her  Mount  Pisgah.  Monuments  are  for  the 
living.  Auburn  is  fast  becoming  tne  "  city  of 
the  dead,'^  Earth,  like  a  faithful  moiner,  opens 
her  bosom  to  receive  her  kindred  earth.  When 
we  v/ander  to  this  beautiful  spot,  we  feel  holier 
and  better ;  but  it  is  because  we  realize  that 
the  spirit,  the  immortal  spirit,  is  not  there. 


THE    DEBUT. 


BV   H.   T.   TVCKERMAN. 


TuRoucu  the  light  curtains  of  the  rich  boudoir 
Glimmered  the  morning,  heavily  and  chill ; 
And  tlie  bronze  lamp  burned  dimly,  as  the  dawn, 
Like  an  unwelcome  presence,  gathered  slow 
O'er  pictured  wall  and  tessellated  floor, 
While  the  broad  mirror  newly  caught  the  tints 
Of  silken  drapery  and  sparkling  gems. 
On  a  Venetian  ciiair,  carved  daintily, 
Hung,  in  fantastic  folds,  an  Indian  shawl  j 
Upon  the  rose  wood  table  glittering  lay 
A  diamond  necklace  and  an  emerald  ring,     . 
Brooches  of  rare  mosaic,  cameos, 
Bracelets  of  gold,  and  coronets  of  pearl ; 
While  scattered  round  was  many  a  fair  device 
Of  foreign  tissue  and  resplendent  hue, 
To  decorate  attractions  now  divine. 
Upon  a  couch,  regardless  of  llio  scene, 
declined  its  mistress  in  a  siiow-wliile  robe 
Wrapt  in  those  wavy  folds  which  sculjilors  fling 
In  careless  grace  around  their  classic  nym[ili3. 
'ISlid  the  light  masses  of  her  loosened  hair, — 
A  pearl-like  star  upon  a  cloud  of  gold,  — 
Still  drooped  a  lialf-blown  rose,  as  if  in  pride 
It  fain  would  wither  o'er  the  ivory  brow, 


THE    DEBUT.  18S 

Whose  rival  tint  it  could  no  more  relieve. 
The  eye,  whose  liquid  love  e'er  stirred  with  joy 
All  who  could  catch  its  glance  of  tenderness. 
Now   glistened  with  a  moisture  mild  and  sad ; 
The  smile,  v/hose  magic  gladness  all  the  niirht 
Hud  woke  a  thousand  hearts  to  rapture  new,— 
The  dimples,  that  like  rosy  ells  had  played 
Upon  the  rounded  cheek,  —  all  now  were  gone ; 
The  maiden,  with  her  beauty,  was  alone, 
And  knew  it  not,  save  as  the  bright-plumed  birda 
Are  conscious  of  their  wings,  when  folded  down 
In  the  soft,  lassitude  of  summer  sleep. 

"And  this  is  all"!  she  murmured  pensively, — 

"  The  throng  was  brilliant,  and  the  music  sent 

A  thrilling  sweetness  tlirough  my  very  heart,  — 

Ay,  and  the  dance  went  merrily,  and  oft 

I  looked  on  those  fair  faces,  and  was  glad 

In  tlie  exciting  hum  of  mutual  joy. 

Yet  how  this  long  anticipated  night 

lias  marred  my  ardent  hopes  ;   how  tame  the  bliss 

It  brought  and  leaves,  compared  with  that  delight 

Which,  in  my  fancy's  view,  so  long  hath  shone  ! 

Mary,  whom  like  a  sister  I  have  loved. 

For  the  first  time  looked  coldly  on  my  face. 

When  rose  the  admiring  murmur  as  I  danced ; 

And  he,  —  my  own,  my  cherished  one,  —  whose  hand 

Will  lead  me  to  the  altar,  gazed  he  not 

With  a  strange  jealousy,  as  1  replied 

To  the  unwelcome  praises  of  the  crowd,  — 

Forgetting  our  long  love,  our  perfect  faith, 

Our  fond  communion  and  affinity  ? 


190  THE    ILy.UT. 

Have  I  not  heard,  that  in  the  world's  domain. 

Friends  are  dissevered,  warm  hearts  frosted  o'er 

With  prideful  hope  and  selfish  vanity  ? 

Ah  !  happier  were  the  hours  tliat  book  and  lute 

And  friendly  converse  and  confiding  love 

Have  borne  away  on  soft,  unruffled  wings, 

In  the  ethereal  atmosphere  of  home, 

Or  'mid  sweet  nature's  balmy  solitude. 

What  is  my  triumph,  though  its  circle  spread 

Through  Fashion's  temple,  if  the  dearest  nooks 

Where  Love  and  Friendship  dwell  are  shadowed  o'ar, 

And  my  own  spirit's  garden  is  defiled 

With  passion's  gusts  and  env3''s  sickly  weeds  ? 

If  the  broad  sunsliine  parches  thus  tlie  spring 

Of  our  most  blessed  aft'ections,  shade  be  mine  ! 

Yes,  Father !  let  the  flowers,  which  lliou  hast  sown, 

Hold  meekly  up  in  their  bright  chalices. 

Throughout  my  pilgrimage,  the  sacred  dews 

Which  thou  didst  shed  from  heaven  upon  their  buds, 

Till  by  thy  hand  paternal   they  are  gleaned, 

To  wave  as  odorous  cf.iscrs  in  thy  courts, 

And,  in  eternal  beamy,  blossom  there." 


THE    CONFESSION. 

'*  Come  let  us  wander,  dearest,  through  wood  and  shady 

glen. 
And  thou  wilt  speak  those  winning  words  of  yesternight 

again ; 
The  purple  clouds  with  crimson  edge  a  glorious    eva 

foretell, 
The   path   winds   near    the    clustering  elms,  to  yonder 

flowery  dell ; 
A  grave  Confessor  will  I  prove,  and  shrive  each  wily  art 
Which  my  romantic  spirit  won,  and  chained  my  haughty 

heart. 

"  I  know  the  wise  ones  counsel  a  maiden  to  deceive, 
And  in  thf  labyrinth  of  doubt  each  faithful  suitor  ieave ; 
They  warn  the  simple, girlish  heart,  its  nature  to  conceal, 
And  lights  and    shades  of  passion   pure  forbid  her  to 

reveal  ; 
But  thy   unfaltering  truth  will   scorn  such  mean   and 

shallow  art, 
Nor  fear  to  let  thy  lover  scan  thy  guileless,  sunny  heart." 

''  And  must  1  tell  thee,  dearest,  that  I  trembled,  when  tliy 

name 
Was  uttered  in  our  household,  in  honor,  or  in  blame; 


192  THE    CONFESSION. 

And  when  thy  manliness  and  worth  all  voices  echoed 

loud, 
I  coined  some  triflintr  error,  my  secret  to  enshroud ; 
Some  dust  upon  the  blossom,  on  the  peerless  gem  a  stain, 
A  cloud  in  the  cerulean,  a  sliadow  on  the  main. 

"  And  must  I  own,  Confessor,  that  in  the  gayest  dance, 
I  fearfully  and  slcallliily  watched  each  betraying  glance, 
\\  inch  you  lavislied  on  the  graceful,  the  witty,  and  t!ie 

fair. 
While  in  my  soul  was  struggling  the  Demon  of  despair  ; 
But,  tliough  my  lieart  was  breaking,  more  brightly  Hashed 

mine  eye, 
And  proudest  rival  might  not  then  divine  my  jealousy. 

"  Tliough    gallant  youths   full  many   might  throng   the 

stately  hall. 
One  noble  farm  my  partial  eye  could  see  amidst  tliera 

all; 
Thougli  suitors  clustered  round  me,  and  worshipped  at 

my  shrine, 
A  cold,  abstracted  notice,  and  changeless  check   were 

mine  ; 
A  mist,  a  cloud,  o'ershadowcd  the  view  of  all  save  tliee,— 
O,  if  the  wise  ones  listened,  wliat  would  they  tliink  of 

me ; 

'*  A  dull,  d-'U  weight  was  at  my  heart,  how  sad  the  <t« 

(lew  by, 
Ifvainly,  midst  the  motley  crew,  I  sought  thy  speaking 

eye  J 


THECOMFESSION  193 

But  mine  the  merry,  merry  heart,  and  thrill  of  maiden 

glee. 
If  haply,  m  a  far-off  group,  I  caught  one  glimpse  of  thee; 
Did  1  mark  thy  hastening  footstep,  O  how  I  strove  to  hide 
The  telltale  blushes  on  my  cheek,  fretting  my  maiden 

pride . 

"  I  dare  not  own^  Confessor,  though  I  remember  well, 
When,  from  a  distant  city,  arrived  a  brilliant  belle, 
Her  manners  so  bewitching,  so  exquisite  her  brow, 
Her  eyes,  the  winning  hazle  hue,  1  think  I  see  them  now ; 
How  much  I  feared  those  eyes  would  come  between  my 

love  and  me  ! 
I  felt  that  she  was  passing  fair,  and  almost  worthy  thee ! 

"  And  when  the  damsels  thronged  around,  imploring  you 

to  say, 
Which  style  of  manner  pleased  you  best,  the  gentle  or 

the  gay, 
I  stood  in  breathless  eagerness,  I  dared  not  raise  mine  eye, 
As,  with  intensest  interest,  I  watched  for  thy  reply. 
Careless  and  cold  thy  answer  came,  and  banished  all  ray 

fear,  — 
fndeed,  my  love,  such  idle  tales  the  wise  ones  should  not 

bear. 

"  I  may  not  own.  Confessor,  how  oft  I  strolled  alone, 
And  iimsed  upon  thy  flattering  speech,  and  most  per8ua« 

sive  tone. 
And  mirvelled  that  thou  didst  not  say  the  words  I  wished 

yet  feared. 
Full  many  a  castle,  fair  and  grand,  my  frolic  fancy  reared, 
13 


134  THE    CONFESSION. 

And  spite  of  bitter,  rankling  words,-  good-natured  friendt 

might  say, 
My  trusting  heart  for  ever  found  some  cause  for  thy  delay. 

"  And  yet  full  oft  would  I  resolve,  that  never,  never  more 
One  thought  of  thee  should  haunt  my  mind,  and  conned 

it  o'er  and  o'er. 
A  hopeless  task  indeed  it  was,  such  mandate  to  obey, 
I  would  not  counsel  maidens  such  trial  to  essay. 
But,  when  thy  deep  devotion  no  longer  was  concea.ed, 
And  jealous  doubts  and  earnest  hopes  thy   changelesa 

heart  revealed ; 

•'  The  depth  of  joy  which  thrilled  my  soul,  forbade  my 
lips  to  speak, 

But  could  a  lover's  searching  glance  distrust  my  manthng 
check  ? 

I  hoped  my  life  might  prove  for  thee  one  long  self- 
sacrifice. 

And  prayed  that  I  thy  fondest  dreams  might  ever  realize  ; 

And  now  are  told,  Confessor,  my  whims  and  follies  all, 

And  censure  from  the  wise,  1  fear,  most  powerless  will 

fall." 

£.  A. 


TYRE. 

BY    R.   C.    WATERSTON. 

"It  shall  be  a  place  for  the  spreading  of  nets  in  the  midst  of 
the  sea ;  for  I  have  spoken  it,  saith  the   Lord  Goq.     I  wil 
cause  the  noise  of  thy  songs  to  cease,  and  the  sound  of  thy 
narps  shall  be  no  more  heard."  —  Ezekiel  xxvi.  5,  13. 

Five  hundred  years  before  the  birth  of  Christ, 
On  Chebar's  banks  the  holy  prophet  stood ; 
He  was  a  man  of  God,  and  liia  great  soul 
Pondered  the  fate  of  nations.     Now  his  eye 
Pierced  the  dim  Future,  and  before  him  shone, 
Far  down  the  course  of  time,  things  yet  to  be. 
*  *  *  *  * 

Silence  was  resting  on  the  minarets 
Of  the  imperial  city.     The  clear  ray 
Of  *he  'ip-risen  sun  was  silvering  o'er 
The  gilded  turrets  of  her  thousand  domes. 
And  snow-white  marble  of  her  palaces ; 
But,  to  the  Prophet's  eye,  her  walls  were  rent. 
And  her  proud  temples  shattered  ;   e'en  the  soil. 
Where  lay  her  deep  foundations,  now  was  spread 
Bare  as  the  naked  rock ;  then  rose  the  Seer, 
And,  to  the  gathered  multitude  around, 
Poured  forth  prophetic  warning. 


196  TYEE. 

"  Thy  marble  palaces  arise 
In  dreamlike  beauty  to  the  skies  ; 
Thy  pillared  temples,  reared  of  old. 
Gleam  in  the  light,  like  burnished  gold  ; 
But  soon  the  world  shall  read  thy  doom, 
And  thy  proud  city  ttaiid  in  gloom! 

"  Tliy  battlements,  with  frown  sublime 
Seem  to  defy  the  power  of  time ; 
But  soon  their  iron  strength  shall  rust, 
And  all  their  bulwarks  fall  in  dust; 
While  the  wild  waves  shall  round  thee  ro*» 
And  nets  be  spread  upon  thy  shore! 

"  Helmet  and  lance,  and  mace  and  spear. 
On  all  thy  massy  walls  appear; 
Thy  gates  are  thronged  with  warriors  brave  ; 
A  thousand  banners  o'er  thee  wave  ; 
But  all  shall  sink  beneath  God's  ire, 
As  flax  before  consuming  fire ! 

*'  Thy  merchants  come  o'er  every  sea, 
J^aden  with  gold  and  ivory ; 
Embroidered  sails  they  each  unfurl, 
And  plough  the  seas  with  freights  of  pearl , 
But  soon  their  treasures  will  have  passed, 
Like  leaves  before  the  howling  blast; 

"  A  shout  of  joy  rings  through  thy  skiet^ 
Aa  from  the  bowers  of  Paradise ; 
Now  warbling  echoes  float  along, 
With  silver  fluto  and  choral  sonj;; 


TYRE.  197 

But  soon  shall  cease  each  joyous  sound, 
And  Desolation  reign  around ! 

"  Thus  speaks  to  thee  the  living  God, 
*  Thy  feet  the  ways  of  death  have  trod , 
Glorious  without,  but  foul  within, 
Thy  children  eat  the  bread  of  sin ; 
Thus  Ruin  o'er  their  guilty  path 
Shall  pour  the  vials  of  her  wrath ! '  * 

The  Prophet  paused,  and  in  his  mantle  folds 
Mournfully  bowed  his  head.    Ages  went  by ;  — 
Then  rang  the  shout  of  war,  the  tramp  of  steeds 
Burst  through  the  valleys.     Chariots  of  brass 
Rushed  madly  on,  with  horsemen  clad  in  steel; 
Before  their  shock  the  brazen  gates  gave  way. 
Temples  and  city  wails  shook  with  the  crash. 
Sharp  arrows  fell  like  hail,  swords  devoured  flesh. 
While  battle-axe  and  spear  were  drunk  with  blood ; 
Crackling  in  flames  sank  tovv-er  end  citadel, 
While,  wildly  streaming  'mid  the  fearful  blaze. 
Waved  Death's  black  banner ! 

Centuries  have  flows 
And  now  the  lonely  fisher  spreads  his  nets 
On  these  deserted  shores.     Here  the  sea-bird 
Builds  her  rude  nest,  and  through  the  sultry  day, 
With  her  shrill  scream,  startles  the  solitude. 


A   NOVEMBER    LANDSCAPE 

BY   MRS.    WHITMAN. 

JIow  like  a  rich  and  gorgeous  picture,  hung 

In  memory's  storied  liall,  seems  that  fair  scene, 
O'er  which  long  years  tlicir  mellowing  tints  have  xlung 
The  way-side  flowers  had  faded  one  by  one. 
Hoar  were  the  hills,  the  meadows  drear  and  dun. 

When  homeward  wending  'neath  the  dusky  screen 
Of  the  autumnal  woods  at  close  of  day, 
As  o'er  a  pine-clad  height  my  pathway  lay, 

Lo !  at  a  sudden  turn  the  vale  below 
Lay  far  outspread,  all  flushed  with  purple  light ; 

Grey  rocks  and  timbered  woods  gave  back  the  glow 
Of  changing  hues,  fast  fading  into  night ; 
Through  the  rich  gloom  the  bright  Moshassuck  rolled 
His  rubied  wave,  braided  with  living  gold ; 
While  one  fair,  lonely  star  lay  like  a  bride 
In  trembling  beauty  on  the  burning  tide. 


THE    WIDOW'S    HOPE. 

BY   H.   F.   GOULD. 

Sleep  on,  my  babe,  and  in  thy  dream 

Thy  father's  face  behold, 
That  love  again  may  warmly  beam 

From  eyes  now  dark  and  cold. 
His  wonted  fond  embrace  to  give, 

To  smile  as  once  he  smiled, 
Again  let  all  the  father  live, 

To  bless  his  orphan  child. 

Thy  mother  sits  these  !>eavv  hours 

To  measure  off  with  sighs ; 
And  over  life's  quick- withered  flowers 

To  droop  with  streaming  eyes. 
For  ah !  our  waking  dreams,  how  fast 

Their  dearest  visions  fade, 
Or  flee,  and  leave  their  glory  cast 

For  ever  into  shade  ' 

And  still,  the  doating,  stricken  heart, 

In  every  bleeding  string 
That  grief  has  snapped  or  worn  apart, 

Finds  yet  wherewith  to  cling  ; 
And  yet  whereon  its  hold  to  take 

With  stronger,  double  grasp. 
Because  of  joys  it  held  to  break, 

Or  melt  within  its  cUsp. 


200  THE    widow's   HOPK. 

A  blast  has  proved,  that  in  the  sand 

I  bused  my  fair,  high  tower! 
Pale  Death  iias  laid  his  rending  band 

On  my  new  Eden  bower  ' 
And  now,  my  tender  orphan  boy, 

Sweet  bud  of  liope,  1  see 
My  epice  of  life,  my  future  joy, 

My  all,  wrapped  up  in  thee. 

I  fear  to  murmur  in  the  ear 

Of  Him  who  willed  the  blow, 
And  sent  the  King  of  Terrors  here 

To  lay  thy  father  low. 
I  ask  his  aid  my  griefs  to  bear, 

To  say,  "Tliy  will  be  done."  — 
That  Heaven  will  still  in  pity  spaiv 

The  widow's  oniy  son. 


SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 


BY   MISS   SEDGWICK. 


"  Grace,  being  the  soul  of  your  complexion,  shall  keep  the 
body  of  it  ever  fair."  —  Measure  for  Measure. 

It  is  a  common  saying,  that  no  individual 
profits  by  another's  experience,  —  there  are  few, 
we  believe,  thnt  profit  by  their  own  ;  few  to 
whom  may  not  be  justly  applied  that  striking  say- 
ing of  Coleridge,  that  "  experience  is  like  the 
stern  lights  of  a  ship,  which  only  illuminate  the 
way  that  is  passed."  But,  of  all  the  scholars  I 
have  ever  known  in  this  ever-open  school  of 
experience,  my  friend,  Mrs.  Dunbar,  is  the  most 
unteachable.  With  a  fair  portion  of  intellect,  with 
a  quick  observation,  and  fifty  years'  acquaint- 
ance with  the  world,  she  is  as  trustful,  as  credu- 
lous, and  as  hopeful,  as,  when  a  child,  she  believ- 
ed the  rainbow  was  a  rope,  of  substantial.,  woven 
light,  with  a  gulden  cup  at  the  end  of  it ;  that 
there  was  a  real  man  standing  in  the  moon,  and 
vhat  the  sky  would,  one  of  these  bright  days,  fall. 


202         SECOXD  THOUGHTS  BEST 

and  we  should  catch  larks.  Being  of  a  benevolen 
and  equable  temperament,  her  credulity  has  the 
must  happy  manifestations.  Her  faith  in  her 
fellow-creatures  is  implicit,  and  her  confidence  in 
the  happiness  of  the  iuture  unwavering ;  so  tiiat, 
however  dark  and  heavy  the  clouds  may  be  at 
any  given  moment,  she  believes  they  arc  on  the 
point  of  breaking  away. 

I  have  known  but  a  single  exception  to  \he 
general  and  pleasant  current  of  my  friend's  life. 
One  anxiety  and  disappointment  crossed  her, 
which  even  her  blessed  alchyniy  could  not  gild  or 
transmute.  Her  husband  lost  all  his  fortune  ;  this 
was  not  the  cross.  Mrs.  Dunbar  said,  she  saw  no 
reason  why  they  should  not  take  their  turn  on  For- 
tune's wheel ;  she  did  not  doubt  they  should  come 
up  again,  and,  if  they  did  not,  why,  her  own  pri- 
vate fortune  was  enough  to  secure  them  from  de- 
pendence and  want.  Her  husband  had  none  of 
her  philosophy,  or,  rather,  happy  temperament;  — 
philosophy  gets  too  much  credit.  He  had  an  am* 
hitious  spirit,  and  his  ambition  had  taken  a  direc- 
tion very  common  in  our  cities  ;  an  aspiration 
after  commercial  reputation,  and  the  wealth  :jid 
magniilcence  that  follow  it.  Mr.  Dunbar  nad 
mounted  to  the  very  top  rung  of  the  ladder,  when, 
alas,  it  fell !  and  his  possessions  and  hopes  wore 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BEST.  203 

prostrated.  A  fever  seized  him  in  the  severest 
Iiou'"  of  disappointment,  and  the  moral  and  phys- 
ical pressure  killed  him.  But  this  was  not  the 
cross.  Mrs.  Dunbar  loved  and  honored  her  hus- 
band without  having  any  particular  sympathy 
With  him.  He  imparted  none  of  his  projects  to 
her,  and  neither  interfered  with  nor  participated 
her  quiet,  every-day  pursuits  and  pleasures ;  so 
that  no  harmonious  partnership  could  be  dissolved 
with  less  shock  to  the  survivor.  Mrs.  Dunbar, 
beside  the  common-place  solaces,  on  such  occa- 
sions, such  as,  "  We  must  all  die,"  "  Heaven's 
time  is  the  best  time,"  had  a  particular  and 
reasonable  consolation  in  being  relieved  from  the 
sight  of  unhappiness  that  she  could  not  remove 
or  mitigate.  This  was  not  selfishness,  but  the 
necessity  of  her  nature,  which  resembled  tho«f* 
plants  that  cannot  live  unless  they  have  sunshine, 
and  plenty  of  it. 

Mrs.  Dunbar  had  one  son,  Fletcher,  a  youth 
of  rare  promise,  who  was  just  seventeen  at  his 
father's  death.  He  most  happily  combined  the 
character  of  his  parents, — the  aspiring  and  firm 
qualities  of  his  father,  and  the  bright  spirit  of  his 
mother.  His  education  had  been  most  judiciously 
directed  by  his  father ;  and  his  mother,  without 
any  system  or  plan  whatever   had,  by  the  snonta 


S04  SECOND  THOCGHTS  BEST. 

ncous  action  of  her  own  character,  most  hapoily 
moulded  his  affections.  At  seventeen,  Flctti.tr 
Dunbar  seemed  to  nie  the  perfection  of  a  youth ; 
with  a  boyish  freshness  and  playfuhiess,  and  u 
manly  grace,  generosity,  and  courtesy.  Much 
more  attention  than  is  usual  in  our  country  had 
been  given  to  the  adornments  of  education  ;  but 
his  father,  who  had  all  respect  to  the  solid  and 
practical,  had  taken  care  that  the  weightier  mat- 
ters were  not  sacrificed  ;  and  he  had  a  prompt 
reward.  So  capable  and  worthy  of  trust  was 
Fletcher  at  his  father's  death,  that  the  mercantile 
house  in  which  he  was  clerk  offered  him,  on  ad- 
vautuutious  terms,  an  agency  for  si-\  years,  in 
France  and  England.  Mrs,  Dunbar  consented  to 
his  departure.  But  this  parting  of  the  widow  from 
her  only  son,  her  only  child,  and  such  a  child,  was 
not  the  cross.  "  There  was  nothing  like  throwing 
a  young  man,  who  had  his  fortune  to  carve,  on  his 
own  responsibilities,"  she  justly  said.  "  Fletcher 
would  get  good,  and  not  evil,  wherever  he  went. 
She  should  hear  from  him  by  every  packet,  and 
six  years  would  soon  fly  away."  And  thoy  did 
nnd  this  bungs  me  to  the  story  of  that  drop,  that 
dilluscd  its  bitterness  through  the  cup  my  friend 
till  now  had  preserved  sweet  and  sparking. 
The  si.x  years  were  gone  :  si.\  years  tney  liari 


SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST.      20£ 

been  to  Fletcher,  of  health,  prosperity,  and  vir 
tue.  I  need  say  nothing  more  for  a  young  man 
who  had  been  exposed  to  the  temptations  of 
London  and  Paris.  The  happy  day  and  evennig 
of  his  arrival  had  passed  away.  Uncles,  aunis, 
and  friends  had  thronged  to  welcome  him,  and 
gone  to  their  homes,  and  Mrs.  Dunbar  was  left 
alone  with  Fletcher  and  Ellen  Fitzhugh. 

I  have  said,  that  Mrs.  Dunbar  had  but  one 
child  ;  but,  if  it  be  possible  for  the  bonds  of 
adoption  to  be  as  strong  as  those  of  nature,  Mrs. 
Dunbar  loved  Ellen  as  well  as  if  she  had  been 
born  to  her.  This  instance  was  enough  to  prove, 
that  there  may  be  the  hai)piness  of  a  maternal 
affection  v/ithout  the  instincts  of  nature,  or  the 
feeling  of  property  in  the  object,  which  more 
selfish  natures  than  my  friend's  require.  Ellen 
was  the  child  of  a  very  dear  friend  of  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar, who,  from  a  goodly  portion  of  nine  daugh- 
ters, surrendered  this,  the  fairest  and  best,  to 
what  she  then  deemed  a  happier  destiny  than 
she  could  in  any  other  way  secure  for  her. 

I  do  not  believe  Mrs.  Dunbar  could  have  to.d 
which  she  loved  best, 'Ellen  Fitzhugh  or  her  son  ; 
in  truth,  they  were  so  blended  in  her  mind  that 
they  made  but  one  idea.  When  she  saw  Ellen, 
Fletcher    was    in    her    imagination ;    when  slifl 


206  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

thought  of  Fletcher,  Ellen  was  the  present  visible 
type  through  which  her  thoughts  and  affections 
went  out  to  him. 

Now  he  had  returned  ;  they  were  under  the 
Bame  roof;  —  Fletcher  was  three  and  twenty, 
with  a  handsome  fortune  to  begin  the  world  with  ; 
Jind   Ellen  was  just  eighteen,  with 

"  a  countenance,  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wileSj 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

Never  was  there  a  fitter  original  for  this  beautiful 
description  of  the  poet,  than  Ellen  Filzhugh  ;  and 
could  there  be  any  thing  more  natural  than  Mrs. 
Dunbar's  firm  belief,  that  Fletcher  would  set 
right  about  weaving  into  an  imperishable  fabric 
the  golden  threads  she  had  been  spinning  for 
him  ? 

The  first  evening  had  passed  away  ;  the  old 
family  domestics  had  received  from  Fletcher's 
hand  some  gift  "  far  fetched,"  and  enriched  with 
the  odor  of  kind  remembrance;  and  IVIrs.  Dunbar 
and  the  young  people  lingered  over  the  decay- 
ing embers,  to  talk  over  the  thousand  particulars 
lliat  are  omitted  in  the  most   minute  correspond- 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BEST.  207 

« 

ence.  •'  Pra5'  tell  me,  Fletcher,"  asked  I\Irs. 
Dunbar,  "  who  was  that  Bessie  Elmore  you  spoko 
of  so  frequently  in  your  last  letters  ?  " 

"  Bessie  Elmore  !  Heaven  bless  her  !  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  lady  who  was  excessively 
kinc  to  me  the  last  time  I  was  in  London.  She 
bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  Ellen,  so  1  called 
her  cousin.,  —  a  pretty  title  to  shelter  a  flirta- 
tion ;  —  I  should  inevitably  have  lost  my  heart, 
but  for  the  presumption  of  asking  her  to  give  up 
her  country." 

"  Was  she  very  like  Ellen  }  " 

"  Excessively ;  her  laugh,  too,  always  recalled 
Ellen's.     She  was  a  charming  little  creature  !  " 

Ellen  blushed  slightly,  and  Mrs.  Dunbar's  hap- 
py countenance  smiled  all  over  as  she  said, 
"  Ellen  is  very  English  in  her  looks." 

"  Yes,  aunt,  a  '  rosy,  sturdy  little  person,'  as 
English  Smith  used  to  call  me." 

"  Not  too  sturdy,  Ellen,"  said  Fletcher,  "  and 
not  too  little,  —  just  as  high  as  our  hearts,  moth- 
er, is  she  not .'  " 

"  She  has  always  just  filled  mine,"  replied  the 
delighted  mother,  who  had  already  jumped  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  aflair  was  as  good  as 
settled,  and  the  wedding,  and  the  happy  years 
to  follow,  floated  in  rich  visions  before  her.  She 
ventured  on  one  question  she  was  anxious  to  have 


208  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

settled.  "  You  have  no  occasion  to  go  abroai 
again,  Fletcher  ?  " 

"  None.  A  happy  home,  in  my  own  country 
lias  long  been  my  '  castle  in  the  air,'  and  now 
thank  Heaven,  I  can  give  it  a  terrestrial  founda- 
tion." 

"  Ellen  is  not  the  person  to  relish  this  '  taking 
for  granted,'"  thought  Mrs.  Dunbar;  Fletcher 
should  be  more  reserved. 

Fletcher  soon  turned  the  current  of  her  ap- 
prehensions. "  Pray,"  he  asked,  "  what  is  the 
reason,  Ellen,  that  you  and  my  mother  have  so 
seldom  mentioned  Matilda  Preston  in  your  letters 
of  late  ?  " 

"  We  have  seen  much  less  of  her  than  usual 
the  winter  past.     Matilda  cannot 

'  To  a  party  give  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind.' 

I  suppose  you  know  she  has  been  a  '  bright  and 
particular  star  '  this  winter,  —  a  belle  ?  " 

"  Has  she  ?  I  am  sorry  for  it !  " 

"  So  is  not  Matilda.  She  enjoys  her  undis- 
puted reign.  She  has,  to  those  she  chooses  to 
please,  captivating  maimers,  and  you  know  she 
is  talented.  The  beaux,  of  a  score  of  years 
standing,  declare  tlierc  has  been  nothing  like  her 
in  their  time.  She  is  beset  with  admirers  and 
lovers.     She  says  she  is  obliged,  when  she  cocs 


SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST       209 

lo  a  ball,  to  keep  an  ivory  tablet  under  her  belt, 
with  a  list  of  her  partners.  Some  wag  pasted  up 
on  Carroll  Place,  where  the  Prestons  live,  *■  Apol- 
lo^s  Courl^  on  account  of  the  perpetual  serenades 
there.  Poor  Rupert  Selden  told  me,  he  had 
thrown  away  a  half  year's  commissions  en  bou- 
quets and  serenades  to  her,  which,  in  his  own 
romantic  phrase,  had 'ended  in  smoke.'  She  is 
said  to  be  engaged." 

"  Encased  !  "  Fletcher  bit  his  nails  for  two 
or  three  minutes  in  deep  abstraction,  and  then 
added,  "  To  whom  is  she  engaged  ?  " 

"  Pray  don't  look  so  distressed,  cousin;  I  only 
reported  it  as  an  on  dif^  —  I  forgot  your  flame 
for  Matilda." 

"  Pshaw,  Ellen  !  but  who  is  the  person  ?  " 

"  The  preeminent  person  at  the  present  mo- 
ment is  Ned  Garston." 

"  Ned  Garston  !  a  monkey,  —  impossible  !  " 

"  Oh,  he  is  much  improved  by  foreign  travel, 
and,  if  still  a  monkey,  a  romantic  monkey,  a 
monkey  en  heau.  He  has  put  himself  into  the 
hands  of  some  Parisian  master  of  the  science  of 
transforminsr  the  deformed,  and  has  come  forth 
the  tableau  vivant,  copied  after  a  famous  picture 
of  some  Troubadour  m  the  Louvre." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Ellen  ? " 
14 


8 1  0  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

"  I  mean,  that  Ned  Garston's  very  pretty,  black 
hair  hangs  in  hyacintliine  curls  over  the  collar  of 
his  coat,  —  that  he  wears  tresses,  Hke  a  girl's,  on 
each  side  of  his  face,  and  mustachios  and  whis- 
kers that  would  befit  a  grand  Sultan.  The  girls 
call  him     the  Sublime  Porte.'  " 

"  And  is  it  possible  that  Matilda  Preston,  that 
gifted,  beautiful  creature,  is  going  to  tlirow  her- 
self away  upon  this  Jackanapes  ?  " 

"  How  wildly  you  talk,  Fletcher!"  interposed 
his  mother,  "  you  have  not  seen  Matilda  Preston 
since  she  was  a  mere  child." 

"  But  a  rare  child,  my  dear  mother  ;  Matilda 
Preston,  at  thirteen,  was  a  fit  model  for  sculpture 
and  painting.  She  moved  like  a  goddess,  and 
her  faculties  were  worthy  such  a  form.  Lord 
bless  me,  what  a  sacrifice  !  —  is  it  a  sacrifice  to 
Mammon,  Ellen  ?  " 

"  Do  not  insist  that  the  sacrifice  is  certain,"  — 

"  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  liis  fortune,"  said  Mrs. 
Dunbar,  for  the  first  time,  I  believe,  in  licr  life, 
turning  a  scale  against  an  absent  person  that 
miglii  have  been  struck  in  her  favor,  "  that  is  to 
Bay,  fortune  and  s'ylc.  Garston  has  the  most 
Bhowy  equipage  in  \ne  city,  and  his  family,  you 
icnow,  arc  all  in  the  first  fashion." 

"  The  fashion  would  have  more  influonco  with 


SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST.      211 

Matilda  than  fortune,  I  suspect.  You  know,  aunt, 
she  refused  Stanhope  Gilmore,  who  is  very  rich 
and  very  clever  into  the  bargain." 

"  But  you  remember,  Ellen,  she  told  us  her 
father  would  never  have  consented  to  her  marry- 
ing a  loco-foco.'''' 

"  Loco-foco  !  what  the  mischief  is  that 
mother .' " 

"  Why the   lowest   of  the   people,  —  an 

agrariai.,  you  know,  —  a  Tory." 

"  What  does  my  mother  mean,  Ellen .'  I  never 
heard  such  a  confusing  combination  of  terms." 

"  You  surely  know  what  we  mean  by  ^^'hig3 
and  Tories  }  " 

"  Not  1." 

"  Do  you  never  read  our  newspapers  ?  " 

"  Very  seldom,  —  never  the  party  papers.  An 
American  abroad  is  ashamed  of  the  petty  wran- 
gling, virulence,  and  vulgarity  of  our  political 
papers.  We  care  only  foi  the  honor  and  pros- 
perity of  the  country  at  large.  We  Icve  our 
countr}'men,  by  whatever  name  they  are  called, 
and  it  makes  us  heart-sick  to  take  up  one  of  our 
popular  journals  and  see  it  proclaimed,  that  '  u 
crisis  is  at  Iiand  !  '  —  that  '  the  country  is  on  tl.e 
brink  of  ruin  ! '  that  '  the  constitution  is  in  jeoji- 
ardy ! '  and  can  only  be  saved  by  a  doubtful  ma- 


2  I  2  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

jority,  rallying  with  all  their  strength  ag&insl  a 
corrupt  faction^  about  to  prostrate  the  liberties  of 
the  country  !  The  only  way  to  keep  your  temper 
is  never  to  look  into  a  newspaper.  But,  pray,  can 
you  tell  me  what  are  these  loco-foco  Tories  ?  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Dunbar  never  disturbed  the  serene 
heaven  of  her  mind  with  politics.  She  received 
a  very  vague  impression  from  the  persons  she 
associated  with,  and  in  accordance  with  this  im- 
pression, she  now  replied,  "  I  don't  know  pre- 
cisely, —  I  remember  my  father  talking  about 
the  Tories  in  Revolutionary  days  being  the 
enemies  of  their  country,  and  I  suppose  it  is  just 
the  same  now." 

Mrs.  Dunbar  answered  in  good  faith.  The 
changes  of  the  last  sixty  years,  the  new  forma- 
tions, and  the  remodellings  ;  the  old  parties  with 
new  names,  and  the  new  parties  with  old  names, 
still  existed  in  her  mind  as  the  ideas  had  origin- 
ally entered  it,  as  banded  Whigs  and  Tories. 
Fletcher  laughed  at  her  reply  and  said,  "  I  see, 
my  dear  mother,  you  are  just  where  I  left  you. 
The  loco-focos,  I  lake  it  for  granted,  Ellen,  ore 
the  administrution  party." 

"  Yes." 

"And  Stanhope  Gilmore,  sprung  from  the  most 
mristocratic  family  in  the  State,  is  a  loco-foco  ? 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    WEST.  313 

and  Matilda  Preston's  father,  of  a  purely  aemo- 
cratic  origin,  belongs  to  the  aristocratic  party  ?  " 

"  Just  so." 

"  Well,  thank  Heaven,  our  party  associations 
may  make  a  great  uproar,  but  they  can  never 
hav«?  the  element  of  danger  while  they  are  so 
unstable  and  accidental !  " 

A  rinjj  at  the  door,  and  the  entrance  of  a  note 
"  To  Miss  Fitzhugh,"  cut  the  thread  of  Fletcher's 
generalizations.  He  cast  his  eye  on  the  note, 
and  exclaimed,  "  That  I  am  sure  is  from  Matilda 
Preston,  though  I  have  not  seen  her  writing  for 
six  years.  If  there  is  nothing  private  in  it,  will 
you  allow  me  to  look  at  it,  Ellen  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  there  is  nothing  private,  only  such 
a  strange  proposition  !  " 

"  Read  it  aloud,  please,  Fletcher,"  said  Mrs. 
Dunbar  ;  and  Fletcher  read  as  follows  : 

"  Dearest  Ellen, 
"  You  are  engaged  to  go  to  Mrs.  Reeves's  cos* 
tume-ba.l  to  morrow  evening.  Some  tiresome 
people  have  been  persuading  me  to  appear  as 
Rebecca.  Now  I  am  well  aware,  that,  in  the 
article  of  beauty,  I  am  not  fitted  to  impersonate 
the  lovely  Jewess,  but  I  am  half  inclined  to  try 
it,  because  I  can  so  well  arrange  a  dress  for  tlie 


214  SELONb  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

character.  Mamma  has  a  remnant  of  a  lasi 
century's  dross,  a  bright  yellow  India  silk,  em- 
broidered  with  silver,  that,  with  my  ostrich  feath- 
er and  agrafe^  will  do  admirably  for  the  turban 
I  do  not  quite  comprehend  Rebecca's  simarre 
but  1  think  the  boddice  of  my  brocade  will  do  aj 
a  substitute. 

"  ]\Iy  note  was  interrupted  by  a  visit  from  ]\Iad. 
ame  Salasuar.  She  offers  me  her  diamonds, — 
d  has  pride,  I  '11  wear  them.  They  are  es- 
sential to  give  the  Eastern  character  of  magnifi- 
cence. Then,  you  know  my  '  sable  tresses,'  my 
'  aquiline  nose,'  my  '  dark  complexion,'  and  my 
'  Oriental  eyes,'  as  De  Ville  will  call  them,  will 
all  work  in  as  accessories,  to  give  a  vraisem- 
llance  to  the  tableau  vivant. 

"  Now,  my  sweetest  Ellen,  T  cann.^t  appear  as 
the  Jewess,  unless  you  will  accompany  me  as  the 
Lady  Rowena.  Pray,  —  pray  do  not  refuse  me, 
why  should  you  } 

"  Perhaps  you  think  '  Vohscuritc  convient  aux 
femmcs'' ;  —  my  dear,  it  will  come  soon  enough 
when  there  are  kitchens  and  nurseries  for  us  to 
supervise,  —  let  us  buzz  a  little  while  in  the  sun- 
shine first. 

"  Do  you  know  a  possible  Ivanhoc  among  the 
Invited  ?     I  do    not.     My  acquaintances  are  ail 


SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST       215 

party-going,  unknightly  gentry  enough.  Garston 
proposes  to  appear  as  Brian  de  Bois-Gialbert ! ! ! 
The  perverse  winds  and  waves  !  if  they  had  but 
sent  us  Fletcher  Dunbar!"  (Here  the  reader 
blushed,  smiled,  and  hesitated.  "  Read  on,  my 
son,"  said  his  mother,  impatiently,  and  on  ho 
stammered.)  "  A  Palmer's  dress,  in  which  you 
know  Ivanhoe  first  appears,  would  have  been 
just  the  thing  for  Fletcher's  advent  from  foreign 
land,  though  the  uprooted  oak,  the  device  of  his 
shield  at  the  tourney,  and  the  motto,  Desdichado, 
(Disinherited,)  would  have  ill  fitted  dear  Mrs. 
Dunbar's  heir-apparent.  It  is  so  intolerably  pro- 
voking that  he  has  not  arrived,  when  he  is  prob- 
ably within  two  days'  sail  of  us.  He  is  so  clever 
and  with  such  a  born-hero  look  !  Perhaps,  after 
all,  he  might  be  cross  and  refuse  ;  so  let  us  be 
philosophers,  and  do  as  well  as  we  can  without 
him.  You,  dearest  Ellen,  will  not  refuse  me  .'' 
You  will  be  the  '  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty ' ; 
I  only  the  poor  Jewess,  who,  you  remember,  the 
Prior  of  Jorvaulx  'swore  was  far  inferior  to  the 
Jovely  Saxon  Rowena." 

"  Is  JIatilda  Preston  out  of  her  head  .' "  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Dunbar.  "  A  fitting  character  for 
you,  truly,  Ellen,  that  pompous,  cold,  disagreea- 


SI 6  SECOND   THOUGHTS    BEST. 

ble,  insipid  Rowena.  Don't  think  of  it,  my  dear 
child." 

"  I  shall  not  think  of  it  for  other  reasons,  aunt. 
I  cannot  conceive  of  any  thing  more  absurd  than 
for  mc  to  personate  a  beauty,  —  a  tall  beauty, 
too  !  born  '  to  the  e.xercise  of  habitual  superior- 
ity, and  the  reception  of  general  homage.'  " 

"  I  see  no  objection  in  that,  my  dear  child. 
There  are  not  half  a  dozen  readers  of  Ivanhoe, 
who  remember  whether  Rowena  was  tall  or 
short ;  and  as  to  beauty  that  is,  as  to  what  i3 
really  engaging  and  captivating,  I  am  sure"— — 

"  Pray,  dear  aunt," 

"  The  servant  is  waiting  for  an  answer,"  said 
Mrs.  Dunbar's  maid. 

"  He  shall  have  it  instantly,"  replied  Ellen, 
taking  up  her  pen. 

"  Stop  one  moment,  my  dear  cousin,"  said 
Fletcher,  laying  his  hand  on  hera  •  "  if  it  is  not 
too  disagreeable  to  you,  say  Yes.  I  should  par- 
ticularly like  surprising  Matilda,  and  joining  you 
at  this  ball  in  the  way  she  proposes.  I  do  not 
see,  that,  in  merely  dressing  in  costume  for  Row- 
ena, and  calling  yourself  by  that  name,  you  arro- 
gate to  yourself  beauty,  and  qucenship,  and  all 
that.  Where  you  make  one  of  a  group,  the  ro 
sumblaaco  is  a  matter  of  inferior  consequence. 


SECOND  THOUGHTS  DEST.       217 

Mciti'da's  Jewess  will  be  so  striking,  that  she  will 
shelter  all  our  imperfectioire." 

Ellen  still  hesitated,  and  looked  perplexed,  and 
Fletchfir  added,  "  I  see  it  annoys  you, —  it  is  a 
sacrifice  of  your  prepossessions,  —  write  the  note 
as  you  at  first  intended." 

The  word  sacrifice  seemed  to  Ellen  to  set  her 
leluctance-  in  a  ridiculous  light,  and  she  felt 
ashamed  of  having  hesitated,  at  this  moment  of 
Fletcher's  return,  to  accede  to  a  request  that  in- 
volved pleasure  to  him.  "  I  will  write  it  as  / 
should  have  intended,  if  I  had  not  been  more 
thoughtful  of  myself  than  of  others'  pleasure. 
You  must  make  up  your  mind,  aunt,  to  my  doing 
the  Lady  Rowena  too  much  honor  !  Shall  I  tell 
Matilda  I  can  find  an  Ivanhoe,  and  that  we  will 
meet  her  at  Mrs.  Reeves's  at  ten  ?  " 

"Thank  you,  Ellen,  —  yes,  —  but  pray  don't 
give  a  hint  of -my  arrival ;  let  us  see,  what  was 
the  Palmer's  dress,  —  do  you  remember,  moth- 
er .?  " 

Mrs.  Dunbar  did  not ;  but,  believing  and  hoping 
in  hor  heart  it  would  be  somethino;  so  unsuitable 
as  to  induce  Fletcher  to  abandon  the  project,  slie 
eagerly  sought  the  first  volume  of  Ivanhoe  on 
tho  book-shelf,  and  gave  it  to  him.  Fletcher 
opened  at  the  entrance  of  the  Palmer  into  Roth* 


2  1  8  IfSECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

erwood.  '"A  mantle  of  coarse,  black  serge,'"  hs 
read  aloud,  "admirable  !  that  is  easily  got  up,  and 
can  be  easily  thrown  aside.  '  Coarse  sandals  boun(^ 
vi'ilh  thongs  on  his  bare  feet.'  By  yc  ir  leave 
S.r  Palmer,  I  shall  not  meddle  with  those.  '  A 
broad  and  shadowy  hat,  with  cockle-shells  stitched 
on  its  brim.'  Excellent !  '  A  long  staff  shod 
with  iron,  to  the  upper  end  of  which  was  attached 
a  branch  of  palm.'  As  we  are  not  to  tramp 
to  Holy  Land,  we  will  omit  the  shoeing.  The 
branch  of  palm  is  the  grand  point.  That  can 
be  got  from  my  old  friend  Thorburn." 

"And  what  is  Ellen's  dress  to  heV  asked  Mrs. 
Dunbar,  —  "  1  hope  that  will  not  be  forgotten." 

"  My  dear  mother,  forgive  me,  —  Ellen  was 
busy  with  her  note,  —  finished  and  sent  is  it !  — 
you  always  execute  while  others  are  planning, 
Ellen.  Ah,  here  is  the  description  ;  '  Hair  be- 
twixt brown  and  flaxen,'  —  yours  has  a  touch  of 
the  auburn,  —  the  Saxon  red." 

"  Red  !  "    interposed    Mrs.  Dunbar,    "  Ellen's 
hair  red  I  it  has  a  true  golden  tinge." 
"  Red  gold,  mother." 

"  At  any  rate,  Fletcher,  it  is  not  red,  flaxen,  or 
brown  ;  I  miijht  have  remembered  Ivowena's  hair 
was  flaxen,  —  every  thing  about  her  was  unmeftu- 
ing." 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BEST.  21D 

' '  Iler  hair,'  "  proceeded  Fletcher,  " '  was 
braided  with  gems.' " 

"  Le  Fleur  will  manage  all  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Dunbar,  "  with  my  set  of  pearl."  She  began  to 
feel  a  little  womanly  interest  in  the  getting  J]) 
of  .he  dress. 

"'A  golden  chain,'"  proceeded  Fletcher, '"  to 
which  was  attached  a  small  reliquary  of  the  same 
metal,  hung  round  her  neck.'  That,  my  dear 
cousin,  you  must  allow  me  to  manage,  that  is,  if 
a  cross  will  do  m  place  of  a  reliquary,  and, 
as  they  are  both  symbols  of  the  same  religion, 
I  do  not  see. why  it  will  not."  He  unlocked  a 
very  beautiful  dressing-case,  which  he  now  told 
Ellen  he  had  bi'ought  for  her,  and  took  from  it 
a  rich  gold  chain,  with  an  exquisitely  wrought 
cross  attached  to  it.  "  I  brought  this  propheti- 
cally," he  said,  clasping   it  round  Ellen's  neck. 

"  Would  the  chain,  and  not  the  cross,  had 
been  prophetic ! "  thought  Mrs.  Dunbar,  and  she 
heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"The  memory  of  affection  is  always  prophetic, 
Fletcher,"  said  Ellen  ;  "  it  links  the  memorj'  of 
past  to  future  kindness." 

*'  What,  my  dear  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Dunbar ;  "  1 
don't  clearly  understand  you." 

The  chain  and  the  cross  were  too  suggestive 


220  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

to  Ellen's  mind  to  admit  of  any  very  clear  ex- 
planation. Fletcher's  quick  eye  perceived  her 
embarrassment,  and,  imputing  it  to  the  awkward- 
ness that  very  commonly  attends  recei\ing  a  gift, 
ne  went  on  witli  the  book.  "  '  Her  dress  was  an 
under  gown  and  kirtle  of  pale  green  silk.' " 

"  Your  new  gown  is  the  very  thing,  Ellen," 
interrupted  Mrs.  Dunbar;  "  how  fortunate!  gree7i^ 
your  own  color." 

"  Ellen's  color  the  emblem  of  desertion ! 
mother  ?  " 

"  No,  no  indeed,  Fletcher ;  no  one  who  has 
ever  loved  Ellen  could  forsake  her." 

Fletcher,  all  unconscious  of  the  feeling  that  was 
bubbling  up  from  his  mother's  heart,  coolly  pro- 
ceeded in  his  trying  process.  "  Here  is  a  stum- 
blinz-block  !  '  The  Lady  Kowena  wore  a  long, 
loose  crimson  robe,  manufactured  of  the  finest 
wool,  which  reached  to  the  ground.'  " 

"  A  stumbling-block  ?  by  no  means,  Fletcher  ; 
Amande  can  convert  my  India  shawl  into  such 
a  robe  without  the  least  injury  to  it,  and  I  '11  an- 
swer for  it  the  Lady  Rowena's  mantle  was  cowlaa 
to  that.     Is  there  any  thing  else  > " 

"  '  A  veil  of  silk  interwoven  with  gvld.'  " 

"  My  Brussels  lace  will  be  just  tlie  thing  ,  il 
is  magnificent,  and  will  shelter  without  conceal- 
in^r." 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BES'l.  221 

At  another  time  Ellen's  right  joyous  spirit 
would  have  found  merriment  enough  in  the  pro- 
ject of  arraying  her  little,  unobtrusive  person  in 
a  crimson  robe,  flowing  to  the  ground,  and  at  the 
simplicity  of  good  Mrs.  Dunbar,  in  supposing  she 
could  carry  off  any  thing  "  magnificent."  She 
had  another  kind  of  veil  to  wear,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  to  conceal  her  feelings,  and  to 
assume  cheerfulness  she  did  not  feel. 

Mrs.  Dunbar  retired  for  the  night.  Ellen, 
after  despatching  some  trifling  home  aflairs,  was 
following  her,  when  Fletcher,  who  had  been 
leaning  abstractedly  on  his  elbow,  said, "  Ellen 
do  not  go ;  1  have  something  to  say  to  you." 
Ellen  turned  with  a  beating  and  foreboding  heart. 
"  Tell  me,  Ellen,  honestly,  is  it  your  belief  that 
Matilda  Preston  is  engaged  to  Garston  .^  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  she  is." 

"Why  are  you  in  such  haste  .^  sit  down, — 
there,  thank  you  ;  but  do  not  look  as  if  I  had 
murder  to  confess,  —  I  have  only  to  tell  you  the 
weakness  and  the  strength  of  my  heart.  You 
know,  my  dear  Ellen, — cousin,  —  sister,  I  sho'ild 
rather  call  you,  for,  without  any  tie  of  blood,  no 
3ister  was  ever  dearer,  there  is  no  one  but  you 
\o  whom  I  can  communicate  my  feelings,  pro- 
jects ^nd  hopes,  —  from  whom  I  can  take  coun- 


222  SECOND  THOrCHTS  BEST. 

sel.  To  begin,  then,  wlicn  I  left  Anicrica  you 
find  Matilda  Preston  were  very  intimate.  I  do 
not  find  you  so  much  so  now  ;  what  is  the  cause 
of  this  alienation  ?" 

"  There  is  no  alienation,  Fletcher;  we  are  Jiti- 
mate  still." 

"  AfTcctionately  intimate  }  " 

"Matilda  is  very  kind,  —  very  aflbctionate  tc 
mc." 

"  And  you  not  so  to  her  ?  1  am  sure  you 
never  repelled  afTection  with  coldness.  There 
must  be  some  reason  for  this.  My  mother,  too, 
seems  to  have  a  prejudice  against  Matilda;  pray 
be  frank  with  me,  Ellen." 

Frankness  was  Ellen's  nature.  She  was  one 
of  the  few  beings  in  this  world,  who  are  thor- 
oughly and  habitually,  by  nature  and  by  grace, 
true.  For  the  first  time  a  cloud  had  passed  over 
her  clear  spirit.  She  began  to  speak,  faltered, 
began  again,  and  finally  said  ;  "  It  may  be  more 
mine  than  Matilda's  fault,  that  we  are  less  in'.i- 
mate  than  formerly.  Our  circumstances,  our 
tastes  arc  difTcrcnt.  I  think  Matilda  is  nmch 
what  she  was  when  you  left  us,  —  that  is,  — 
that  is,  allowing  for  the  diflcrence  between  a 
Bchool-erirl  and  a  belle,  Fletcher." 

"  A  belle  !  —  how  I  hate  the  term.     Hut  hovr 


SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST       223 

could  it  be  otherwise  in  a  city  atmosphere,  with 
Matilda's  beauty,  Talents,  and  accomplishments  ? 
I  see  she  is  not  quite  to  your  taste,  Ellen  ;  I  am 
sorry  for  it,  but  this  is  better  than  I  feared.  Now 
for  my  confession,  in  brief.  When  I  left  you,  I 
was  a  reserved  boy.  Neither  you,  nor  my  moth- 
er, probably,  ever  suspected  my  predilection,  but 
for  two  years  I  had  been  desperately  in  love  with 
Matilda  Preston.  I  believed  she  loved  me.  We 
exchanged  many  a  love-.oken,  many  a  promise. 
It  is  true  she  was  a  mere  child,  I  a  mere  boy  ; 
but  there  are  such  childish  loves  on  record,  EK 
Icn.  The  germ  of  the  fruit  is  in  the  unfolding 
bud.  It  may,  after  all,  have  been,  on  her  part, 
a  little  innocent  foolery,  forgotten  long  ago  ;  but, 
if  so,  I  was  coxcomb  enough  to  take  it  all  in 
dead  earnest.  Through  my  six  years  of  absence 
I  have  cherished,  lived  upon,  these  remem- 
brances. All  my  projects,  all  my  successes  have 
blended  with  the  thought  of  Matilda  ;  and,  blessed 
by  Heaven  in  my  enterprises,  I  have  now  come 
home  determined  to  throw  myself  at  her  feet,  if 
■I  find  her  what  memory  and  a  lover's  faith  lia^-c 
painted  her."  Fletcher  fixed  his  eye  on  Ellen 
Hers  fell.  "Will  you  not,  —  can  you  not,  El- 
en,  give  me  a  '  God  speed '  ?  " 
Th:;  flush  on  Ellen's  cheek  faded  to  a   deadly 


224  SECOND   Ilk  IGHTS  KI.ST. 

paleness.  After  a  momcjfjfs  hesitation,  she  sum- 
moned her  resolution  ;  and,  raising  her  eye  to 
meet  Fletcher's,  rejilicd,  with  a  tolerably  steady 
voice,  "Do  not  ask  a  'God  speed'  of  me  now, 
Fletcher  ; — wait  till  you  have  seen  Matilda,  and 
B;udied  her  character,  as  you  ought  to  study  that 
en  which  the  happiness  of  your  life  is  to  depend  • 
and  then,  if  your  ripened  judgment  confirms  your 
youthful  preference,  you  shall  have  my" — "God 
speed,"  she  would  have  said,  but  her  honest 
tongue  refused  to  utter  the  word  to  which  her 
heart  did  not  answer,  and  adding,  "  my  earnest 
wishes,  —  my  prayei-s,"  she  burst  into  irrepressi- 
ble tears,  and,  horror-struck  at  what  she  feared 
was  a  betrayal  of  her  true  feelings  she  fled,  with- 
out even  a  "  good  night,"  to  her  own  apartment. 
The  truth  did  once  flash  across  Fletcher's 
mind,  "  It  is  a  phenomenon  to  see  Ellen  in 
teare,  save  at  some  touching  tale  or  known  grief," 
he  thought;  "  Ellen,  with  her  ever  bright,  buoyant 
spirit,  —  her  '  obedient  j)assions,  will  resigned.' 
lias  my  dear,  imprudent  mother,  with  her  equal 
fondness  for  us  both,  been  kindling  a  sjiark  of 
tenderness  in  Ellen's  heart  .^  "  The  ihouiiht  was 
no  sooner  conceived  than  rejected.  There  was  no 
latent  vanity  in  Fletch.cr's  mind  to  please  itself 
with  cherishing  it.     It   was   happily   improbable. 


SECOND    THOt.'GHTS    BEST.  225 

and  it  soon  gave  place  to  thick-coming  and  mosi 
pleasant  fancies.  But  one  cloud  hovcrcd  ove. 
them,  —  Mrs.  Dunbar's  and  Ellen's  too  evident 
ilistrust  of  Matilda.  "  I  will  '  study  her  charac- 
ter,' and  abide  by  the  decision  of  my  '  ripened 
judgment,'  "  resolved  Fletcher.  Alas  for  tho 
judgment  of  a  young  man  of  three  and  twenty 
as  to  a  talented  beauty  of  nineteen,  with  the  des- 
perate make-weight  against  it  of  a  long-cherished 
love ! 

When  love  takes  possession  of  a  mind  perfect- 
ly sane  in  other  respects,  it  acts  like  a  monoma- 
nia. This  one  idea  has  an  independent  exister.ce, 
a  complete  ascendency,  and  absolute  rule.  The 
faculties  of  perception,  comparison,  judgment, 
have  no  power  to  modify,  —  the  will  no  control 
over  it.     An  angel,  surely,  should  keep 

"Strict  charge  and  watcii,  that 


*»  No  evil  thing  approach  or  enter  in  " 

the  paradise  of  the  affections. 

The  trials  of  the  evening  were  not  over  for 
Ellen.  It  was  her  invariable  custom  to  undress 
in  Mi-s.  Dunbar's  apartment,  and  to  have  a  liulo 
gossip  over  the  interests  of  the  closing  day,  and 
the  anticipations  of  the  leaf  of  life  next  to  be  turn- 
ed, before  they  parted  for  the  night.  This  is  the 
15 


226  SELOU  IKCLUHlb  Jl.fcT. 

hour,  that,  of  all  others,  unlocks  the  treasures  of 
the  heart.  Memory  pours  out  her  hoarded  stores, 
and  young  hope  shows,  by  her  magic  lantern,  her 
visions  of  the  future. 

Ellen  had  often  sat  with  her  loving  friend  over 
llie  dying  embers,  reading  and  re-reading  the  pas- 
sages in  Fletcher's  letters,  where  he  dwelt  on  the 
fond  remembrances  of  homo.  Every  mention  of 
Ellen,  and  the  letters  abounded  with  them,  his 
mother  repeated  and  repeated,  and  always  with  an 
emphasis  and  smile,  that  sometimes  made  Ellen's 
blood  tingle  to  her  fingers'  ends.  And  yet,  sim- 
ple as  a  child,  the  good  woman  never  dreamed 
that  she  was  communicating  her  faith  and  hopes, 
and  awakening  feelings  never  to  sleep  again. 
This  she  knew,  as  a  matter  of  principle  and  dis- 
cretion, would  not  be  right ;  and,  while  she  never 
said  to  Ellen,  in  so  many  words,  "  !\Iy  heart  is 
set  on  your  marrying  Fletcher,  and  I  am  sure 
his  is,  even  more  than  mine,"  she  did  not  suspect 
she  was  conveying  this  meaning  in  every  look, 
word,  and  motion.  And  even  now,  when  the 
pillars  of  her  "castle  in  the  air,"  were  tumbling 
about  her  head,  she  had  no  apprehension  that 
Ellen  would  be  crushed  by  them.  They  were 
to  meet  now  for  the  first  time,  with  the  most  pain- 
''ul  feeling  to    loving   and   trusting  friends,    that 


BECOXD    THOUGHTS    BEST.  aQ"* 

their  hearts  must  be  hidden  with  impenetrable 
screens  ;  but,  such  was  the  transparency  of  deal 
Mrs.  Dunbar's  heart,  that,  put  what  she  would 
before  it,  the  disguise  melted  away  in  the  clea. 
light,  —  to  tell  the  truth,  Ellen's  was  little  better 
her  safety  was  in  the  dim  sight  of  the  eye  to  be 
eluded. 

She  washed  away  her  tears,  called  up  all  the 
resolution  she  could  muster,  and  repaired  to  Mrs. 
Dunbar's  apartment,  whom  she  hoped  she  might 
find  by  this  time  in  bed,  and  get  off  with  her 
"  good-night  kiss  "  ;  but,  instead  of  this,  she  was 
pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  not  a  pin  removed. 

"  Dear  aunt,  not  in  bed  yet  ?  " 

"No,  my  dear  child,  —  I  did  not  feel  like 
sleeping  the  first  night,  you  know,  of  Fletcher's 
being  here ;  —  it  's  natural  to  have  a  good  many 
wakeful  thoughts  of  past  times,  and  so  forth." 
While  saying  this  she  had  turned  her  back,  and 
was  busying  herself  at  the  bureau,  the  tone  of 
her  voice,  and  the  freqr.ent  use  of  her  handker- 
chief, conveying  the  state  of  her  feelings  as  pre- 
cisely to  Ellen,  as  her  streaming  eyes  would,  had 
she  shown  them. 

"  Now  you  are  at  the  bureau,  aunt,  please  to 
take  out  your  crimson  shawl,"  said  Ellen,  lucE- 
ily  hitting  on  an  external  object  to  engage  their 


gas  EECCND  TKCUGHTS  BIST 

attenlion.  Mrs.  Dunbar  fumbled  at  the  drawers 
lonii  enoiiszh  to  sjivc  herself  time  to  clear  her 
voice  and  dry  her  eyes,  and  then,  throwing  the 
shawl  into  Ellen's  lap,  she  said,  "  You  ar°  wel- 
come to  that,  and  every  thing  else  I  have  in  the 
world,  God  kncnvs,  my  dear  child  ;  but  I  don'l 
wish  you  to  go  to  Mrs.  Reeves's  to-morrow  eve- 
ning,—  I  don't  think  you  will  enjoy  yourself." 

*•  It 's  no  very  rare  thing,  at  a  party,  not  to 
enjoy  one's  self,  aunt.  I  shall  certainly  have  the 
pleasure  of  obliging  Fletcher." 

"  That 's  true,  Ellen  ;  —  but  then  it  was  not 
like  him  to  ask  you,  when  he  saw  it  was  so  dis- 
agreeable to  you.  I  don't  see  why  he  should  set 
his  heart  upon  this  foolish  Ivanhoeing." 

"  But  you  see  why  lie  does,  aunt  "  Ellen 
spoke  with  a  smile,  melancholy,  in  spite  of  her 
cUbrts. 

"Yes,  I  do,  I  do!  "  cried  Mrs.  Dunbar,  her  tears 
gushing  forth  afresh  ;  "  I  sec  that  Fletcher  has 
the  most  unexpected,  incompreliensible,  unrea- 
sonable, unfortunate,  strange,  dreadful,  wonderful, 
and  amazing  interest  in  Matilda  Preston.  I  iiad 
never  so  much  as  thought  of  it,  —  it  's  insanliy, 
Ellen,  —  he  is  as  blind  as  a  beetle." 

"It  IS  a  blindness,  aunt,  that  is  not  like  to  be 
eurcd  by  the  presence  of  Matilda  Pre.ston." 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BEST.  229 

"  That  's  just  what  I  feel,  Ellen.  IMen  are 
always  carried  away  with  beauty.  I  thought 
Fletcher  was  an  exception  ;  but  he  is  not,  or  he 
ivould  tell  the  gold  from  the  glittering." 

"•  But,  aunt,  you  do  Matilda  and  Fletcher  injus- 
tice. She  has  fine  qualities;  and,  if  what  you 
now  expect  should  happen,  you  will  look  on  Ma- 
tilda with  very  different  eyes." 

"Never,  Ellen,  never  in  the  world,  —  she 
will  always  seem  to  stand  between  me  and  — 
I  mean,  —  I  can't  tell  you^  Ellen,  what  I  mean. 
But  this  I  will  say,  come  what  Avill,  no  one  can 
ever  take  your  place  to  me,  —  you  are  the  child 
of  my  heart,  ^  you  have  grown  up  at  my  side, — 
I  can  never  love  another  daughter  ;  —  whomever 
you  marry,  Ellen,  wherever  you  go,  your  home 
shall  be  my  nome." 

"  No,  no,  aunt,"  said  Ellen,  hiding  her  tearful 
face  on  the  bosom  of  her  faithful  friend,  "  I  shall 
never  marry,  —  nerer.''''  And  before  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar could  reply,  she  gave  her  good-night  kiss 
and  left  the  room. 

"  Is  it  possible  she  could  have  understood  me.'" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Dunbar.  After  a  little  reflection 
she  quieted  her  apprehensions  with  the  thought 
that  she  had  a  hundred  times  before  spoken  just 
as  plainly,  and  Ellen  had  not  suspected  what  she 


^3  0  PFCONP  TKOrCHTS  BEST 

meant.  She  was  like  the  child,  who,  shutting  his 
own  eyes,  fancies  no  one  can  see  him. 

When  Ellen  left  3Irs.  Dunbar's  room,  she  went 
mechanically  down  stairs  to  perform  her  last 
household  duty,  which  was  to  see  that  the  doors 
were  secured.  On  the  floor,  at  the  strcot-door, 
she  perceived  a  note ;  and,  on  taking  it  up,  saw 
it  was  addressed  to  a  Miss  Littell,  Miss  Preston's 
dress-maker,  who  lived  opposite  the  Dunbars'. 
It  had  been  accidentally  dropped  by  Miss  Pres- 
ton's careless  servant.  It  was  unsealed,  and  El- 
len, taking  it  for  granted  it  related  to  something 
about  the  costume  for  the  Reeves  party,  and  that 
it  might  be  important  to  have  no  delay  in  getting 
it  into  the  hands  of  the  crfiste,  x-ang  the  bell  for 
the  servant,  intcndintr  to  send  it,  thouErh  the  hour 
was  unseasonable.  Diana,  Mrs.  Dunbar's  crippled 
old  cook,  called  out  from  the  kitchen  stairs  to 
Miss  Ellen,  that  "  Daniel  had  just  gone  up  to 
bed."  Daniel,  like  his  pagan  mate,  Diana,  had 
lived  out,  and  overstayed  his  lease  of  threescore 
and  ten  with  kind  Mrs.  Dunbar;  and  Ellen,  hes- 
itating to  call  liim  down,  ventured  to  open  the 
note,  to  see  if  it  were  a  matter  of  any  impor- 
tance. It  contained  only  the  following  thrcp 
lines : 

"  Pray,  Miss  Littoll,  if  you  have  any  dealings 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BEST.  231 

ivith  Mrs.  D.'s  family,  do   not   mention   that  you 
iti formed  me  of  the  arrival  of  her  son. 

"  iM.  P ." 

'  I  thought  so!"  exclaimed  Ellen,  involuntari- 
ly. "  What  is  it,  Ellen  >  What  did  you  think  .'  " 
asked  Fletcher,  who,  unheard  by  her,  had  just 
come  into  the  open  door  for  something  he  had 
loft  behind. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  —  nothing  at  all,"  said  she. 
He  playfully  attempted  to  wrest  the  note  from 
her  hand,  till,  seeing  she  anxiously  retained  it,  he 
desisted,  and  she  returned  to  her  own  apart- 
ment, where  sJie  breathed  freely  for  the  fii*st  time 
for  many  hours,  and  where  she  spent  a  long, 
sleepless  night  in  expelling  from  her  mind  her 
shattered  hopes,  and  forming  her  plans  for  the 
future. 

"Ought  I  not,"  she  said,  in  her  self-examina- 
tion, "  to  have  obeyed  the  first  impulse  of  my 
heart,  and  when  Fletcher  appealed  to  me,  to  have 
told  him  frankly  my  opinion  of  Matilda.  After 
much  meditation  the  response  of  her  conscience 
was  a  full  acquittal.  She  had  done  all  that  the 
sircumstances  of  the  case  and  her  relations  to  the 
parties  allowed,  m  withholding  her  '  God  speed  ' 
till  Fletcher's  ripened  judgment  should  authorize 
his  decision.     She  reflected,  that  Matilda's  char- 


232  iJECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

nctcr  had  seemed  to  her  to  have  the  same  radical 
faults  six  years  before,  that  it  had  now,  and  that 
in  spite  of  them,  Fletcher  loved  her  then.  Per- 
haps she  judged  those  faults  too  strictly.  Perhapi 
her  judgment  was  tinged  by  her  self-love ;  foi 
she  was  conscious,  that,  in  the  points  so  offen 
sive  to  her,  she  was  constitutionally  the  oppositr 
of  Matilda  Preston.  She  looked  ae-ain  at  Mali/ 
da's  discrepant  notes  of  that  evening,  and  charita 
bly  allowed,  that  she  had  at  first  felt  too  much 
displeasure  at  what  struck  her  as  absolutely  false, 
but  what,  after  all,  might  be  an  innocent  strata- 
gem to  get  up  a  dramatic  scene,  and  perhaps  to 
slieltcr  emotions  at  a  first  meeting  with  Fletcher. 
"Rut  oh,  Matilda,  why  always  a  stratagem.? 
Why  never  let  the  appearance  answer  to  the 
reality  ?  Why  never  trust  yourself  to  simple 
truth  }  "  Because  Matilda  was  afraid,  that  truth 
would  not  serve  her  so  well  as  she  could  manage 
for  herself.  We  have  no  doubt  our  friends,  the 
Phrenologists,  would,  wiih  a  very  fair  intellec- 
tual developement,  have  found  a  great  predom- 
inaricc  of  the  organs  of  self-esteem,  love  of 
approbation,  and  cautiousness  on  Matilda's  head. 
She  had  an  intense  love  of  admiration,  not  mero 
ly  of  her  personal  charms,  fur  her  preeminonl 
beauty  was  settled  by  universal  suflVago.  and  she 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BEST.  233 

nad  no  anxiety  about  it;  but  slie  would  bo 
thought,  in  all  the  circle  of  her  acquaintance,  to 
be  the  most  capable  of  disinterested  friendslii[] 
and  of  self-sacrificing  love  ;  her  tastes  were  in 
favor  of  all  the  virtues,  —  she  really  wished  to 
be  amiable  and  excellent ;  but  the  virtues  have 
their  price,  and  they  will  not  abate  one  jot  or 
tittle;  —  that  price  is  self-abasement,  self-forget- 
fulness,  and  generosity.  "  Hard  it  is  to  climb 
their  steeps  ; "  and  they  can  only  be  achieved  by 
painful  and  persevering  efforts.  At  tiic  first  real 
trial  appearances  vanish  like  vapor,  —  there  is 
no  cheating  in  the  long  run  in  the  matter  of 
goodness. 

With  all  Matilda's  fine  taste,  with  her  suscep- 
tibility to  opinion,  and  her  eager  desire  of  praise, 
she  was  no  favorite.  Her  intense  selfishness 
would  penetrate  all  disguises,  —  her  conscious- 
ness of  herself  was  always  apparent,  —  there 
was  never  a  spontaneous  action,  woixl,  or  look. 
In  all  this  she  was  the  very  opposite  of  Ellen, 
who,  most  strictly  watchful  of  the  inner  world, 
let  the  outer  take  care  of  itself.  This  gave  a 
freedom  and  simplicity  to  her  manners,  and  a 
Btraightforwardness  to  all  her  dealings,  that  inspir- 
ed confidence.  Matilda,  in  the  midst  of  her  rnosl 
Imlliant  career,  had,  whenever  silent,  an  expres- 


23  4  SFXOND    THOL'GHTS    BEST. 

sion  of  care  and  dissatisfaction,  —  a  rigidity  and 
contraction  of  the  upper  lip,  (often  criticized  as 
the  only  imperfection  of  her  beauty,)  that  be- 
trayed the  puerile  anxieties  in  which  she  was  in- 
volved, the  web  slie  was  perpetually  weaving  or 
ravelling.  There  is  no  such  tell-tale  as  the  hu 
man  countenance,  or  rather,  we  should  say  (with 
more  reverence)  God  has  set  his  seal  of  trull) 
upon  it,  and  no  artifice  has  ever  yet  obscured  the 
Divine  impression.  Ellen  Fitzhugh's  lovely  face 
was  the  mirror  of  truth,  cheerfulness,  and  afiec- 
tion. 

"  There  is  no  use,"  thought  Ellen,  as  she  pur- 
sued the  meditations  in  which  we  left  her,  "  in 
trying  to  conceal  my  feelings,  —  1  cannot,  — 
I  never  did  in  my  life,  —  I  must  just  set  to  work 
and  overcome  them.  Dear  Mrs.  Dunbar,  all 
those  sweet  fancies  that  you  and  I  have  been  so 
busily  weaving,  the  last  six  years,  must  be  sacri- 
ficed at  once  and  for  ever  ;  and  I  must  just  learn 
to  think  of  Fletcher,  as  I  did  when  a  little  girl, — 
IIS  a  dear,  kind  brother  ;  —  that  should-  be,  —  it 
shall  be,  enough."  This  resolution  was  mado 
with  many  showers  of  tears,  and  sanctified  with 
many  prayers,  ejaculated  from  the  depths  of  her 
Iieart ;  and,  once  made,  she  set  about,  with  most 
characteristic  promptness,  contriving  the  meanf 
*br  carrying  i'  into  execution. 


tJEl^ONI)    THOUGHTS    BEST.  235 

"  In  the  first  place,"  thought  she,  "  I  must  have 
something  extraorduiarj  to  occupy  ine,  or  I  shall 
be  constantly,  and  oh  how  painfully,  watching 
Fletche:''s  every  look  and  action  ;  in  spite  of 
myself,  I  shall  be  hoping  and  fearing.  This  must 
not  be,  for  1  know  how  it  must  all  end !  It  oc- 
curred to  her,  that  it  was  nearly  as  important  to 
divert  Mrs.  Dunbar's  attention  as  her  own,  and  a 
lucky  thought  came  into  her  head.  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar's physician  had  been  urging  her,  for  some 
weeks,  to  have  a  little  w^en  removed,  that  waa 
growing  in  a  dangerous  neighbourhood  to  her 
eye.  Mrs.  Dunbar  was  timid  and  procrastinat- 
ing ;  but,  with  Fletcher's  aid,  Ellen  felt  sure  of 
persuading  her  this  was  the  very  best  time  for 
the  operation.  Then  she  determined  at  once  to 
put  in  execution  a  project  she  had  conceived, -of 
teaching  a  poor,  young  blind  girl,  a  pensioner  of 
Mrs.  Dunbar's,  music.  Ellen  was  an  accom- 
plished musician  ;  and  she  certainly  was  not  over 
sanguine  in  believing,  that  the  prospect  of  qual- 
ifying a  drooping,  dependent  creature  to  earn  an 
independent  existence,  would  make  sunshine  f  ir 
Bome  hours  of  every  day. 

With  these,  and  other  similar  plans  in  her 
head,  which  were  necessarily  deferred  till  after 
the  Reeves  ball,  Ellen  appeared  the  next  morn- 


5J3G  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

ing  Willi  a  light  and  strong  heart,  and  a  corre« 
spondent  face,  voice,  and  manner.  Oh,  if  rightly 
put  to  the  test,  what  unthought  of  powers  there 
are  in  those  who  every  day  yield  themselves  the 
passive  victims  to  uncontrollable  circumstances  ; 

"  powers 
That  touch  each  other  to  the  quick,  in  modes 
Which  the  gross  world  no  sense  hath  to  perceive, 
No  soul  to  dream  of." 

Ellen  talked  over  with  Fletcher,  with  real  interest 
ond  unaflected  cheerfulness,  the  arrangements  for 
the  evening.     If  she  had   put  into  action  all  of 
Talleyrand's  diplomacy,  she  could   not  so  thor- 
oughly have  convinced  him,  that   his  surmise  of 
the  preceding  evening   was  unwarranted.     Half 
of  Mrs.  Dunbar's    griefs  were  removed    by    the 
conviction,  that  her  favorite  did  not  share  them  ! 
We  could    fill  a  volume  with   the    details   of 
the  ball,  and  the  circumstances  of  the  following 
sLx  weeks,  and  all  the  dcvclopcments  of  charac- 
ter and  feeling  which  came  from  them  ;  but  wo 
must  cut  down  our  history  to  the  dimensions  of  its 
Procrustes'  bed.     We  must  say  for  t>ur  fivnriie 
Ellen,   that,   bating  a  Ccw  inches  of  stature   she 
did  honor  to  the  character  she  so   reluctantly  as- 
sumed.   Ilcr  usually  sparkling  eyes  were  languid 
from  the  sleeplessness  of  the  preceding  night,  and 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BEST.  23? 

her  color,  which,  in  heated  rooms,  was  apt  to  be 
uncomfortably  high,  was  abated  and  fluctuating, 
and  her  dress,  so  happily  arranged  and  judicious 
ly  modified,  that  the  Saxon  beauty,  for  once, 
fairly  divided  the  suffrages  with  the  brilliant  Re- 
becca. Cut  with  the  mere  externals  endrd  all 
resemblance  to  the  truth  of  the  characters.  The 
Palmer,  tlie  Christian  devotee,  had  nor  eye,  nor 
ear,  but  for  the  proscribed  Jewess  ;  and  Rebec- 
ca was  all  delight  at  finding,  beneath  the  broad 
brim  of  cockle-shells,  and  the  Slaconian,  the 
contour  and  air  of  a  very  elegant  young  man, 
who,  she  felt  assured,  had  returned  no  less  her 
ardent  lover  than  the  boy  she  had  parted  with 
six  years  before.  She  managed  her  prepared 
surprise  so  awkwaidly,  that  Ellen  wo'ndered  at 
Fletcher's  blindness.  He  was  indeed  blind  !  As 
to  poor  Garston,  he  was  so  enchanted  with  him- 
self in  the  Templar's  costume,  that  he  never 
once  dreamed  how  near  he  was  to  a  more  por- 
tentous overthrow  than  that  of  his  prototype  on 
the  field  of  Ashby  de  la  Z'ouch. 

We  must  pass  over  the  next  six  weeks  with 
merely  saying,  that  Ellen  executed  her  plans, — 
that  Mrs.  Dunbar  found,  in  the  complete  success 
of  a  dreaded  operation,  a  very  considerable  coun- 
leraction  to  what  she  still  maintained  was  by  far 


238  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

the  greatest  grief  of  her  life.  But  it  was  plain 
that  even  in  no  selfish  grief  could  her  benevolent 
feelings  be  merged.  Siie  was  exceedingly  ex- 
cited with  Ellen's  marvellous  success  with  her 
musical  pupil,  and  she  had  the  most  eager  pleas- 
ure, every  day,  in  the  result  of  a  subscription 
Ellen  had  set  on  foot  for  the  yet  unpublished 
book  of  a  poor  autlior,  or,  rather,  a  very  poor 
man,  and  good  author.  We  must  confess,  that 
Ellen  had  her  liours  of  conflict,  agitation,  and 
derpondency,  when  life  was  a  burden  ;  but  even 
then,  though  the  eclipse  seemed  total  to  her,  she 
saw  light  beyond  the  shadow.  Is  there  ever  total 
darkness  to  the  good  ?' 

Fletcher  made  her  liis  confidante.  This  was  a 
pretty  severe  tria-l  ;  but  she  tried  to  feel,  and  did 
feel,  in  some  measure,  the  sympathy  he  expect- 
ed ;  and  she  was  prepared  by  degrees  for  the 
final  communication,  that  he  and  Matilda  had 
plighted  faith.  In  spite  of  her  resolutions  and 
efibrts  she  turned  excessively  pale,  and  tried  in 
vain  to  command  her  voice  to  speak  ;  but  thia 
did  not  surprise  Fletcher.  All  deep  emotions  are 
serious.  lie  had  never  hunself  been  more  so  *han 
at  tins  moment  of  the  attainment  of  the  dearest, 
liie  long-cherished  wish  of  his  heart.  One  hour 
before  he  had  felt  a  pang  that  he  in  vain  tried  to 


SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST.       23 & 

forget,  when,  while  their  mutual  vows  were  stil' 
warm  on  their  lips,  Matilda  had  left  him  in  haste 
lest  she  should  not  be  the  first  at  the  opening  of 
i  newly-arrived  case  of  French  millinery  !  Ho 
painfully  contrasted  this  with  Ellen's  emotion, — 
with  his  own ;  and  a  thought  arose  through  the 
mists  of  his  mind,  repressed  as  soon  Ors  perceived, 
that  there  were  more  points  of  sympathy  be- 
tween him  and  Ellen  Fitzhugh,  than  he  had 
found  with  Alatilda. 

As  to  poor  Mrs.  Dunbar,  whom  Ellen  trusted 
she  had  quite  prepared  for  the  crisis,  she  took  to 
her  bed,  upon  the  first  intimation  of  it,  with  a 
head-ache  that  lasted,  unintermittcd,  as  never  had 
head^ache,  or  heart-ache,  with  her  before,  for  three 
days.  In  vain  Matilda  came  to  ask  her  blessing. 
Mrs.  Dunbar  was  unaffectedly  too  ill  to  receive 
her.  "  With  God's  help  and  time,"  said  the 
good  lady  to  Ellen,  "I  will  do  my  duty  to  Fletch- 
er's wife  ;  but  as  to  seeing  Matilda  Preston  now, 
that  's  quite  impossible,  —  and  as  to  ever  loving 
Ijor  as  a  child,  as  I  do  you,  my  own  dear  Ellen 
that  's  not  to  be  looked  for.—'  The  wind  blowelh 
where  it  listeth.'  "  Mrs.  Dunbar  was  no  philos- 
opher ,  —  her  instincts  alone  had  led  her  to  the 
discovery  of  the  great  truth,  that  our  volitiona 
have  no  power  over  *xir  affections, 

Ellen,  now  that  all  was  decided,  kept  her  eye« 


24  0  SErOI>;D  THOIGHTS  BEST. 

resolutely  on  the  bright  side.  "  I  am  very  sorry 
aunt,"  she  said,  "  you  did  not  feel  equal  to  see 
ing  Matilda  tfiis  mormng  ;  I  have  seen  her  more 
brilliant,  'out  never  one  half  so  interesting.  Love 
has  given  an  exaltation  to  all  her  feelings.— 
has  breathed  o  soul  into  her  face.  There  was 
a  gentleness  and  a  deference  in  her  manners  to 
Fletcher,  that  is  quite  new  to  her.  She  feels 
his  superiority,  and  it  may  work  wonders  on  her 
character." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Ellen?  — well,  —  for  Fletch- 
er's sake,  —  God  bless  him  !  —  I  '11  hope  for  the 
best.  I  am  not  an  observing  person,  Ellen  ;  but 
I  have  often  remarked,  that  love,  like  showers 
from  Heaven,  is  reviving  to  the  thinnest  soil,  and 
every  thing  is  fresh,  and  sweet,  and  beautiful 
for  a  little  while;  but  the  flowers  soon  fade, — 
the  grass  withers,  —  nature  will  take  a  natural 
course." 

"But,  aunt,"  replied  Ellen,  with  a  smile,  "may 
not  grace  subdue  nature  ?  " 

No,  my  dear,  no ;  it  may  help  nature  on  in 
its  own  way,  but  not  change  it.  I  am  sure  I 
have  tried  my  best  for  the  last  six  weeks  to 
put  down  nalure;  but  it  is  too  strong  for  me, 
Ellen."  Mrs.  Dunbar  wiped  away  a  flood  of 
tears,  and  then  went  on.  "  Ellen,  I  have  been 
thinking  this  was  a  good  time,  while  we  arc  all 


SECOND  THOUGHTS  EEST       241 

SO  wretched, —  I  mean,  while  I  am,  —  to  speak  to 
Fletcher  about  looking  over  that  private  desk  of 
his  father's.  Will  you  take  it  to  him,  dear? 
You  know  I  have  never  looked  into  it.  Before 
Btrangiirs  come  into  the  family,  it  is  best  to  have 
papers  that  concern  no  one  but  us,  disposed  of. 
You  need  not  say  that  to  Fletcher ;  but  I  can 
trust  you,  dearest  child,  to  say  nothing  to  him 
that  appears  unfriendly  to  Matilda; — just  give 
him  the  desk  and  key." 

Ellen  did  so  ;  and,  at  the  first  leisure  moment, 
Fletcher  sat  down  to  its  examination.  He  found 
nothing  of  particular  interest  till  he  came  to  a 
file  of  letters,  marked,  "  Correspondence  with 
Selden  Fitzhugh."  Before  transcribing  the  only 
two  letters  of  interest  to  the  reader,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  premise,  that  the  elder  Dunbar  and  Fitz- 
hugh had  been  intimate  from  their  childhood,  and 
that,  after  their  marriage,  the  closest  friendship 
united  their  families.  A  letter  from  Fletcher's 
father  to  his  friend,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
written  soon  after  his  failure,  ran  thus : 

"  Dear  FiTzatiGir, 
"  My  ruin  is  total.     The  labors,  the  enterprises, 
tlie  successes  of  twenty  years,  are  wrecked,  — 
nothing  remains.    I  am  the  victim,  in  part,  of  the 
16 


24  2  8KC0ND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

folly  of  Others,  in  part,  I  confess  it  with  shame 
of  my  own  grasping.  I  had  competence,  I  de 
sired  riches,  and  thus  it  has  ended.  But  the 
worst  is  to  come,  my  dear  friend.  I  have  made 
shipwreck  of  your  little  fortune,  as  well  as  of 
my  own  hopes.  I  have  been  obliged  to  give  up 
all  my  property  to  satisfy  my  indorsers,  accord- 
ing to  the  received  notion,  that  debts  to  them  aro 
debts  of  honor,  and  I  have  not  wherewith  to  pay 
a  penny  of  the  thirty  thousand  dollars  you  trusted 
to  me  without  bond,  mortgage,  or  security  of  any 
sort.  This  is  the  requital  of  your  generous,  but 
too  rash  friendship  ! 

"  Fitzhugh,  I  am  a  heart-broken  man.  My 
hope  and  energy  are  gone.  If  it  were  not  so, 
I  might  promise  you  a  day  of  restitution,  —  ] 
should  expect  it  myself;  but  all  before  me  is 
dark  and  dreary.  Even  now  I  feel  as  if  a  fe\er 
wiere  drying  up  the  fountains  of  life.  Forgive 
me,  —  pity  me,  my  dear  friend  ;  I  curse  my  own 
folly.  You  will  not  curse  me,  but,  believe  me,  1 
would  coin  my  liearl's  blood  to  make  you  res- 
titution. 

"Your  miserable  friend, 

"F.    DUNBAE.' 


The  /bllowing  answer  to  Mr.  Dunbar's  leltoi 


SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST       243 

was  dated  at  Mr.  Fitzhugh's  country  residence. 
and  written  a  week  later  than  his. 

"  Dear  Dunbar, 
"  I  am  truly  sorry  for  your  misfortunes ;  but, 
my  dear  fellow,  take  heart  of  grace.  If  you  have 
made  a  total  shipwreck,  as  you  say,  why  so  has 
many  a  good  fellow  before  you.  The  storm  will 
pass,  —  you  can  fit  out  again  ;  only  don't  carry 
quite  so  much  sail,  and  take  out  a  clearance  for 
some  other  port  than  El  Dorado.  As  to  my 
money,  believe  me,  on  my  honor,  after  the  first 
surprise  and  shock  were  over,  the  loss  has  not 
given  me  a  moment's  uneasiness.  I  would  not 
have  put  the  money  at  risk  for  myself,  or  you, 
if  I  had  not  secured  an  adequate  provision  for 
my  good  wife,  and  eight  dear  little  girls,  and  El- 
len into  the  bargain,  if  ever  she  comes  home  to 
us.  Our  wants  are  moderate,  and  our  supplies 
sufficient ;  and,  believe  me,  a  few  thousand  dol- 
lars to  be  added  to  the  inheritance  of  each  of 
my  girls  would  not  make  one  of  our  bright  hours 
brighter.  They  will  never  hear  of  the  loss,  for 
1  have  taken  care  they  should  not  count  upon 
money  that  I  had  subjected  to  the  chances  of 
mercantile  life.  I  have  been  thus  particular  to 
tranquillize  you,  my  dear  friend.     If  finally  you 


244        SECONB  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

retrieve  your  circumstances,  you  will  pay  the 
debt,  and  all  will  be  well ;  —  and,  if  you  never 
pay  it, —  why  it  will  be  just  as  well. 

"  Ever  faithfully  yours, 

"  Selden  FiTziiucn." 

"  God  bless  and  reward  you,  noble,  dear 
fri(!nd,"  was  an  indorsement  on  the  back  of  this 
letter,  dated  two  days  before  Mr.  Dunbar's  death, 
and  writteni  by  himself,  evidently  with  a  weak 
and  tremulous  hand. 

Fletcher  had  read  and  re-read  the  letters,  and 
had  sat  for  an  half  hour  meditating  on  their  con- 
tents, when  Matilda,  who  had  called,  on  an  ap- 
pointment  with  Ellen,  opened  the  door,  and, 
seeing  him  deep  in  occupation,  was  retreating, 
when  he  said,  "  Pray  come  in,  Matilda,  you  aro 
the  person  I  most  wished  to  see." 

"  That,  I  trust,  is  not  very  singular !  But  what 
is  the  matter,  Fletcher }  Are  you  making  your 
will  ? " 

"  I  am  thinking  over  the  disposition  of  my 
worldly  effects,"  he  replied,  with  a  very  faini 
smile.     "Will  you  read  these  letters,  Matilda  .' " 

"  Yes  ;  but,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  look  so 
solemn  ;  I  should  think  they  were  from  the  dcart 
ja  th.e  livinji." 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BEST  243 

They  are  — read  them,  and  tell   me  what 
ycu  think  of  them." 

]\iatilda  read  his  father's,  while  Fletche:  pe- 
rused her  countena'nee  with  a  far  deeper  interest 
than  she  evinced.  "  I  see  nothing  very  partic- 
ular in  this,"  she  said.  "  Your  poor  father  seems 
to  have  taken  his  failure  sadly  to  heart.  I  never 
heard  before  that  Mr.  Fitzhugh  lost  by  him.  But 
the  Fitzhughs  are  very  well  off  for  the  country, 
and  I  suppose  it  did  not  matter  much.  Ellen 
•was  probably  adopted  by  your  mother  as  an  off- 
set." 

"  No ;  my  mother  never  knew  any  thing  of  the 
Dusiness." 

"  No  !  Oh,  I  forgot,  —  Ellen  has  lived  here 
all  her  life.  But  why  are  you  so  sad,  dear 
Fletcher,  —  there  is  no  use  in  fretting  over  past 
troubles  ?  " 

"  You  have  read  but  one  of  the  letters,  Matil- 
da," said  Fletcher,  coldly,  without  noticing  her 
last  reply  ! 

"  So  I  see ;  but  I  was  thinking  so  much  more 
of  you  than  of  the  letters ! "  She  read  Mr.  Fitz- 
liugii's.  Fletcher's  eve  was  riveted  to  her  face : 
there  was  no  change  of  color,  no  moistening  of 
the  eye,  the  return  messages  of  a  kindred  spirit 
to  a  genero'is  action.     "  How  well  he  tooit  it ! " 


I 


246  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

shp  said  in  her  ordinary  tone  of  voice.  "  I  have 
often  heard  your  mother  say,  that  Ellen  was  just 
like  her  father,  making  the  best  of  every  thing, — 
*  from  evil  still  educing  good.'  "  Matilda  saw  thaf 
Fleti;her  expected  something  more  from  hei  ;  but 
what,  exactly,  she  could  not  divine.  "  Mr.  Fitz- 
hugh's  letter  must  have  been  a  balm  to  your  fa« 
ihor's  wounded  spirit,  just  at  that  sad  time,'*  she 
added,  and  paused  again.  A  servant  entered  and 
filled  the  awkward  interval  with  some  good  reason 
why  I\Iiss  Ellen  could  not  keep  her  appointment. 

"  I  am  not  sorry,"  said  Matilda,  when  the  door 
closed,  "  for  now,  dear  Fletcher,  you  will  go 
with  me." 

"  No,  Matilda,  I  cannot." 

"  But  you  will,"  she  urged,  laying  her  hand 
persuasively  on  his  shoulder,  and  with  a  look  that 
would  have  seemed  to  defy  denial.  "  Come, 
come  away,  Fletcher,  from  these  musty  papers, — 
you  will  be  devoured  with  blue  devils ;  come,  1 
must  go,  and  I  will  not  go  without  you." 

"  You  must  excuse  me." 

"  Vou  are  unkind,  Fletcher,"  said  Matilda,  and 
licr  starting  tears  showed  that  she  could  fci  I  keen- 
ly. Her  pride  would  not  brook  any  furtiicr  en- 
'jreaty,  and  she  abruptly  left  the  room,  not  doubt- 
.ng,  however,  that  she  should  be  intercepted,  or 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BEST.  '247 

inimsdlately  followed  by  her  penitent  lover.  But 
eiie  reached  her  own  home  unmolested,  ard  re- 
tired to  her  own  apartment,  hurt  and  offended, 
and  resolved,  when  Fletcher  should  come  to  his 
senses,  to  be  unrelenting.  There  was  ring  after 
ring  at  the  street-door,  and  visiter  after  visiter  was 
announced  ;  but  the  only  one  she  cared  for  came 
not,  and  to  every  one  else  she  was  denied.  At 
last  the  servant  brought  a  note  from  Fletcher. 
"  There  must  be  something  more  than  one  note," 
thought  Matilda,  as  she  broke  it  open.  The  cur- 
rent of  her  feelings  was  somewhat  changed  as 
she  read  what  follows : 

"  My  dearest  Matilda, 
"  Forgive  me,  I  pray  you.  I  have  seemed  un- 
reasonable and  sullen  to  you,  and  I  have  done 
you  in  my  heart  more  wrong  than  I  have  ex- 
pressed. That  heart  is  wholly  yours,  and  no 
feeling  it  harbours  shall  ever  be  hidden  from  you 
The  truth  was,  that  I  expected  the  letters  woulo 
have  called  forth  more  feeling  than  they  did.  I 
ought  to  have  reflected  (and  I  liave  since),  that 
our  feelings  depend  much  on  our  humors,  —  that 
your  mini  was  preoccupied,  — and  that,  having 
no  particular  Interest  in  the  parties,  you  could 
not   participate  the  strong  and  painful  sympathy 


248  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

that  then  thrilled  every  nerve  in  my  frame.  1 
was  wrong,  and  again,  on  my  knees,  I  beg  you  to 
forgive  me!  I  have  bound  myself  to  tell  the  whole 
tnitli  ;  and  1  must  confess,  that  I  expected  still 
more,  —  tltat  I  expected  you  would  anticipate  the 
conclusions  which  of  course  were  instinctive  with 
me ;  but  I  should  have  remembered,  my  dear 
Matilda,  that  women,  having  no  business  habits  or 
notions,  the  duty  devolving  on  me  at  this  mo- 
ment would  not  have  occurred  to  you.  Tliat  duty 
plainly  is,  to  pay  my  father's  debt  to  the  Fitz- 
huahs.  There  is  no  le";al  obligation,  but  a  moral 
obligation,  and  an  added  debt  of  gratitude,  that 
no  human  law  could  make  more  binding,  or  could 
invalidate.  If  I  had  a  family  dependent  on  me, 
there  might  be  a  question  ;  but,  situated  as  I  am, 
there  can  be  none.  The  debt,  with  its  accumu- 
lation of  interest,  will  swallow  up  nine  tenths  of  * 
the  property  I  have  acquired  ;  but,  with  the  rem- 
nant, with  rare  experience  for  three  and  Iwcnhj, 
with  business  talents,  and  a  fair  reputation,-  I 
shall  soon  go  forward  again.  That  event,  which 
IS  to  be  the  crowning  joy  of  my  life,  must  be 
deferred  for  two  years.  This  is  no  small  trial  of 
my  philosophy,  —  of  my  religion  (for  I  will  use 
the  right  word) ;  but,  with  this  bright  reward  ever 
in  view,  no  labors,  no  diflicultics  will  daunt  my 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    REST.  24^ 

spirit.  Dearest,  dearest  Matilda,  forgive  me  for 
having  for  a  momenl  doubted  you.  It  was  the 
first  time.  I  believe,  as  I  believe  in  all  truth. 
it  will  be  the  last." 

The  following  brief  note,  in  pencil,  was  re* 
turned  by  the  servant : 

"  Come  to  me  at  nine,  this  evening.  I  shall  be 
alone  and  discntraoied  then,  and  not  till  then. 
In  the  mean  time,  make  no  disclosures  of  your 
intentions  to  your  mother,  to  Ellen,  or  to  any 
one." 

The  interval  was  one  of  reposeful  confidence 
to  Fletcher,  and  of  that  celestial  joy  that  springs 
from  an  ability,  and  an  immovable  resolution, 
to  perform  a  right  action  at  a  great  personal  sac- 
rifice. We  claim  for  him  no  great  merit  in 
yielding  the  money.  Any  right-minded  young 
man,  full  of  health  and  hope,  and  conscious  ca- 
pacity, might  have  done  this  without  a  pang  ; 
but  Fletcher  was  a  passionate  lover,  and  he  had 
to  encounter  the  miserable  uncertainties  of  a 
hope  deferred. 

Lot  us  see  liow  the  interval  was  passed  by 
Matilda.     After  much  agitating  self-deliberation 


250  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

she  called  her  mother  to  her  counsel.  IMi-s.  Pre* 
ton  was  the  prototype  of  her  daughter,  save  that 
what  was  but  in  the  gristle  with  the  daugiiter,  had 
hardened  into  bone  with  the  mother,  and  save 
that  Matilda,  from  having  had  an  education  very- 
much  superior  to  Mrs.  Preston's,  had  certain 
standards  and  theories  of  virtue  in  her  mind's 
eye,  that  had  never  entered  the  mother's  field  of 
vision.  jMatilda,  too,  from  having  been  all  her 
short  life  in  fashionable  soci-ety,  did  not  estimate 
it  at  so  high  a  rate  as  her  mother,  who  had  paid 
for  every  inch  of  ground  she  had  gained  there. 

Matilda  related  her  last  interview  with  Fletch- 
er, and  showed  his  note.  "  Do  you  believe," 
said  Mrs.  Preston,  after  reading  it,  "  that  Fletcher 
Dunbar  will  be  so  absurd  as  to  adhere  to  this 
plan  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  he  will,  lie  is  perfectly  inflexible 
when  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  what  he  thinks 
a  duty,  however  ridiculous  it  may  appear  to 
others." 

"  Of  course,  my- dear,  you  are  absolved  from 
your  engagement." 

"  If  I  choose  to  be." 

"  If  you  choose  !  My  dear  Matilda,  you  know 
how  much  it  was  against  my  wishes  that  you 
sbould  form  this  engagement,  —  that  you  should 


SECOND    THOUGHTS    BEST.  251 

give  up  the  most  brilliant  match  in  tin  city  for 
wliat,  at  the  very  best,  would  be  merely  a  genteel 
establishment.  But  the  idea  of  your  going  into 
the  s'.'iade  at  once,  giving  up  every  thing,  and 
.ivmg,  perhaps,  at  lodgings,  or  setting  up  house- 
keeping with  two  servants  that  you  must  look 
after  all  day,  and  spend  your  evenings  making 
your  husband's  shirts,  by  a  single  astral  lamp, 
ride  in  an  omnibus  (you  might  ride  in  that  splen- 
did carriage),  and  treat  yourself,  perhaps,  to  one 
silk  gown  a  year, — and  all  for  what .'  To  humor 
the  notions  of  a  young  man,  who  is  in  no  respect 
superior  to  Garston,  except  that  he  is  rather 
taller,  and  has  a  straighter  nose,  and  darker,  larg- 
er eyes,  not  much  larger  either  !  " 

Mrs.  Preston  had  struck  a  wrong  note.  Ma- 
tilda shrunk  back  from  the  path  her  mother  was 
opening,  as  the  images  of  her  two  lovers  passed 
before  her. 

"Oh,  mamma,"  she  exclaimed,  "there  is  a 
norrid  difference  between  them  ;  and  if  I  only 
could  persuade  Fletcher  to  abandon  this  no- 
tion"— 

"  Well,  my  dear,  in  my  opinion,  if  he  loves 
you,  he  will ;  —  if  he  does  not,  why  then  you  lc«8 
nothing  and  gain  every  thing.  Luckily  your 
engagement  is  a  secret,  as    yet,  and    you  hav« 


S52  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

taken  no  irretrievable  step.    Garston  was  hci'e  this 
morning,  —  a  look  could  bring  him  back  to  you." 

"  But,  mamma,  to  give  up  what  I  have  been  so 
lonfT  dreaming  of?  "  "Yes,  and  what  every 
young  girl  dreams  of,  and  wakes  up  betimes  to 
pretty  dull  realities.  IIow  should  you  like,  for 
instance,  to  wash  the  breakfast  things,  and  stir 
up  a  pudding,  —  to  wash  and  dress  your  chil- 
dren, and  make  a  bowl  of  gruel  for  your  dear 
mamma-in-law  ?  " 

"  Oh  detestable  !  "  Matilda  pondered  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  said,  "  I  really  think,  if 
Fletcher  loves  me,  he  will  sacrifice  his  feelings 
to  me.  I  am  sure  he  owes  it  to  me,  after  the 
sacrifice  I  made  to  him  ;—  I  have  certainly  prov- 
ed myself  disinterested,  but  1  do  not  like  to  be 
treated  as  if  I  could  be  set  aside,  and  wait  for 
the  working  of  any  fancy  that  comes  up.  I  will 
tell  him  so, —  I  am  resolved.  He  must  lake  the 
responsibility  of  deciding  it." 

The  evening  came,  and,  when  the  clock  struck 
nine,  Fletcher  entered  Miss  Preston's  drawing- 
room,  his  fine  countenance  beaming  with  the 
serenity  and  trustfulness  of  his  heart ;  but  Matil- 
da's first  look  sent  a  thrill  through  it,  that  was 
like  the  snapping  of  the  chords  of  a  musical  in- 
Btrument  at  the  moment  it  is  felt  to  be  in  perfect 


q 


SECOND   THOUGHTS    BEST.  252 


rune.  She  advanced  towards  liim,  and  gave  him 
her  hand  as  usual,  and  she  smiled  ;  but  it  was 
a  mere  muscular  movement,  the  expression  wa 
any  thing  but  a  smile.  Her  beautiful  face  had  all 
the  rigidity  that  a  fixed  and  painful  purpose  could 
give  to  it  ;  but  it  was  a  purpose  that  depended 
on  a  contingent,  and  tc  that  contingent  the  smile 
and  the  responding  pressure  of  her  hand  were 
addressed. 

Her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen,  and,  for  the 
first  time,  her  dress  was  not  elaborately  arranged. 

She  spoke  first,    "  You  do  not  love  me,  Fletch- 
er !  " 

"  Not   love  you,   Matilda  !     God   only  knows 
liow  tenderly  I  love  you." 

"  No,    Fletcher,   you   do   7wt  love    me,  —  the 
truth  has  broken  upon  me  with  irresistible  proof." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Matilda  ?     AVhat  have 
you  heard?    Surely  it  is  not  —  it  cannot  be" 


"  It  is,  Fletcher.  Your  note  has  nullified  our 
engagement.  I  have  judged  you  by  my  own  heart. 
I  have  questioned,  examined  that,  and  I  am  sure 
that  no  fimcled  duty,  —  no  absolute  duty  could 
have  forced  me,  —  much  less  persuaded  me  at 
its  first  intimation,  to  expose  the  ha|)piness  tlial 
^•as  just  whhin  our  grasp  to  the  hazards  of  time.' 

Fletcher  poured  out  protestations  and  prayei-s, 


i 


254  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

and  concluded  with  assuring  Matilda,  that,  "if  she 
would  share  with  him,  at  the  present  rt.oment, 
his  abated  fortune,  if  she  would  at  once  risk  the 
uncertainties  that  he  must  encounter,  he  should 
be  a  happier  and  prouder  man  than  all  the  wealth 
in  the  world  could  make  him." 

IMatilda  burst  into  tears.  "  It  is  not  rifrht,  — 
It  is  not  generous,"  she  said,  "  to  put  what  you 
consider  a  test  to  me.  It  is  none.  You  must 
acquit  me  of  any  grovelling  care  for  money.  You 
have  but  to  look  six  weeks  backward  to  remem- 
ber, that  the  first  fortune  in  the  city  was  waiting 
my  acceptance,  and  fashion,  and  brilliant  family 
connexions.  I  sacrificed  all,  without  a  shadow  of 
regret,  to  you,  and  now  I  am  thought  very  lightly 
of  in  comparison  with  a  fancied  duty." 

"  A  fancied  duty  .?     Good  Heaven  !  " 

"  A  real  duty,  then  ;  but  so  questionable,  that 
nine  men  out  of  ten  would  pronounce  it  no  duty 
at  all.  It  is  not  the  money.  I  care  as  little  for 
that  as  you  can  ;  but  it  is  the  terrible  truth  you 
have  forced  on  me,  —  you  do  not  love  me." 

"Matilda,  you  wrong  yourself,  —  you  wrong 
me." 

"  Prove  it  to  mc,  then,  Fletcher.  Let  our  rela- 
tions be  what  they  were  yesterday,  —  burn  tliose 
letters,  and  forget  them." 


SECOND    THOUUHTS    BEST  2F>5 

'■  Never  !  "  cried  Fletcher,  indignantly,  *'  so 
nelp  me  God,  —  never." 

"  Then  the  tie  that  bound  us  is  sundered,  — 
our  engagement  is  dissolved.'" 

''  Amen  !  "  said  Fletcher,  and  he  rushed  fron 
the  house,  —  his  mind  confused  and  maddened 
with  broken  hopes,  disappointed  afTcction,  and 
dissolving  delusions. 

There  is  one  painful  but  sure  cure  for  love. 
The  slow-coming,  resisted,  but  irresistible  con- 
viction of  the  unworthincss  of  the  person  be- 
loved. 


A  little  more  than  two  years  had  passed  away, 
when  one  bright  morning,  at  the  hour  of  ceremo- 
nious visiting,  a  superb  carriage,  looking  more 
like  a  ducal  equipage  than  one  befitting  a  weal- 
thy citizen  of  a  republic,  drew  up  at  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar's door.  The  gilded  harness  was  emblazoned 
with  heraldic  devices,  and  a  coat  of  arms  was 
embroidered  in  gold  on  the  hammer-cloth,  and 
pamted  on  the  pannels.  The  coachman  and 
footman,  in  fresh  and  tasteful  liveries,  were  in 
the  dickey,  and  the  proprietor  of  the  equipage 
(in  appearance  a  very  inferior  part  of  it)  waa 
seated   on    the  box    with  a  friend.     Within    the 


56  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

coach  was  a  lady,  magnificently  dressed  in  the 
latest  fashion.     Siie  seemed 

"  A  perfect  wom.in,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ;" 

Dut  she  liad  thwarted  the  plan,  —  she  had  exiin« 
guished  the  "  angel  light,"  —  she  had  herself 
closed  the  gates  of  Paradise,  and  voluntarily  cir- 
cumscribed her  vision  to  this  world.  She  had 
foregone  the  higher  element  for  which  she  was 
destined  ;  but  the  wings  she  had  folded  for  ever 
betrayed  by  their  fluttering  her  disquietude  with 
the  way  she  had  chosen.  The  face  that,  turned 
heavenward,  would  have  reflected  Heaven,  was 
fixed  earthward,  and  the  dark  spirits  of  Discon- 
tent and  Disappointment  brooded  over  it. 

There  is  a  baser  trafinc  going  on  in  this  world 
of  ours,  than  that  which  -the  poet  has  immortal- 
ized in  his  history  of  Faust,  carried  on  under  the 
forms  of  law,  and  witli  the  holy  seal  and  super- 
scription of  marriage. 

The  lady  alighted  from  the  coach  and  was  on 
the  door-step,  awaiting  her  husband.  He  did  not 
move.  The  footman  had  rung  the  bell,  and  Mrs. 
Dunbar's  servant  stood  awaiting  the  en(rce. 

"  Are  you  not  going  in  with  mc,  Ned  }  "  s\\9 
whed. 

"Not!,  —  1  hate  bridal  visits." 


SECUNU    THOUGHTS    BEST.  ^fw 

*  Oh,  come  with  me,  I  entreat  yon,"  she  said, 
earnestly. 

"  It  's  a  bore  !  I  can't.  Bob  and  I  will  drive 
rcund  the  square,  and  take  you  up  as  we  reluni." 

The  lady  looked  vexed  and  embarrassed  ;  but 
there  seemed  no  alternative. 

"  Is  there  much  company  in  the  drawing-room, 
Danici  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  None,  ma'am.  Miss  Ellen,  that  is,  Mrs.  Dim- 
bar,  the  bride,  —  Miss  Ellen  that  was,  —  don't  see 
company  in  a  regular  way,  as  it  were." 

"  No  ?  1  heard  she  did.  I  '11  leave  my  card 
now." 

While  she  was  taking  it  from  her  card-case  the 
door  opened,  and  Fletcher  Dunbar,  with  a  man- 
ner the  most  frank  and  unembarrassed,  advanced, 
and  offered  her  his  hand.  "  Pray,  Mrs,  Garston," 
he  said.  "  do  not  turn  us  off  with  a  card  ;  we  are 
at  home,  and,  like  all  happy  people,  most  happy 
to  hear  congratulations." 

Matilda  Garston  had  not  been  under  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar's roof  since  the  memorable  morning,  when 
she  found  Fletcher  at  his  father's  desk.  How 
changed  was  life  now  to  all  parties !  Fletcher 
had  awakened  from  the  dream  of  boyhood  to  a 
reality  of  trustful  love,  to  which  his  "  ripened 
judgment"  had  set  its  seal 
17 


258  SECOND  THOUGHTS  BEST. 

Ellen,  wlx)  had  resigned  her  hope  of  reigning 
in  Fletcher's  heart,  was  now  its  elected  and  en- 
throned queen.  She  looked  like  the  embodied 
spirit  of  home,  and  domestic  love  and  happiness 
The  two  young  women  contrasted  like  the  types 
of  the  spiritual  and  material  world. 

Our  good  friend,  Mrs.  Dunbar,  was  at  the  acme 
of  felicity.  It  would  have  been  in  vain  for  her 
to  try  to  repress  the  overflowing  of  her  heart, 
and  try  she  did  not.  It  sparkled  and  ran  over 
like  a  brimming  glass  of  champagne. 

"  I  am  truly  glad  to  see  you  here  again,  Matil- 
da.—  Mrs.  Garston,  I  mean,"  she  said ;  "  I  really 
am,  my  dear.  And  now  we  have  met,  old  friends 
together,  I  will  tell  you,  that  I  never  had  one  hard 
thought,  no,  not  one,  at  your  breaking  ofT  with 
Fletcher.  It  was  providential  all  round.  Fine 
pictures  should  have  fine  Trames  ;  —  you,  my 
dear,  just  lit  the  one  you  are  set  in,  and  our  little 
Ellen  was  made  to  be  worn,  like  a  miniature, 
close  to  the  heart.  I  used  to  be  a  believer  in 
(Irst  love,  now  I  think  '  second  thoughts  best,'  ' 


THE   FAIRIES'   DANCE 

The  moon  is  full,  the  stars  are  bright, 

Tiie  monks  are  all  asleep; 
Now  gayly  come  the  Fays  to-night, 

Their  revelry  to  keep. 
They  love  the  abbeys  old  and  gray. 

Whence  the  vesper  song  is  heard, 
And  the  matin  hymn  at  break  of  day 

Awakes  the  sinnring  bird. 

With  waving  torch,  and  tiny  shout, 

The  nimble  foot  they  ply, 
And  Fairy  laughs  are  ringing  out 

Beneath  the  midnight  sky  ;  — 
Then  mortals  hear  the  merry  peals, 

And  wonder  at  the  sound, 
."So  like  the  chiming  of  harebells, 

When  light  winds  steal  around. 

A  joyous  race  the  Fairies  are, 

In  gossamer  bediglit. 
With  diamonds  twined  among  their  hair, 

And  gleaming  in  the  ligiit. 
They  sport  themselves  beneath  the  sea, 

Where  the  stormy  wind  comes  not, — 
Where  phosphor  gleams  from  the  coral  tree 

To  light  up  the  crystal  grot. 


iJbU  THE    FAIRIES    DAiNCE. 

In  bowers  of  odorous  amber  made, 

The  sca-spriles  love  to  dwell,  — 
The  floor  with  mother-of-pearl  inlaid, 

And  gleams  of  the  bright,  pink  shell. 
There  the  sea-fan  waves  above  their  head, 

With  many  a  {jorgeous  gem. 
And  the  glorious  things  'neath  the  ocean  spread 

Are  known  to  only  them 

In  the  mountain  cave,  where  diamonds  burn, 

Tlie  Fairies'  home  is  made ; 
They  bathe  themselves  in  the  flow'ret's  urn, 

in  the  still,  lone  forest  shade  ; 
Wherever  her  spell  hath   Beauty  wove, 

The  Fairy  is  sure  to  be, — 
In  the  silent  cave,  in  the  palmy  grove, 

Or  the  deep,  blue,  boundless  sea. 

But  most  they  love,  in  the  starry  night, 

From  ocean  and  air  to  hie. 
And  sport  themselves  in  the  soft  moonlight, 

'Neath  the  still,  still  midnight  sky. 
And  then  do  they  love  the  hallowed  ground, 

Whence  prayer  was  wont  to  rise,  — 
For  a  holier  sspcll  is  bn-atiied  around, 

In  the  blessed  evening  skies. 

They  prop  the  walls  with  pious  care. 
When  touched  by  the  hand  of  time 

And  bid  round  the  altar,  worn  and  bare, 
The  clinging  ivy  climb; 


THE    FAIRIES'    DANCE,  261 

And  thus,  though  ages  should  pass  away, 

It  stands  in  its  ivy  veil, 
And  Fairies  under  its  arches  play, 

In  the  moonlight  clear  and  pd.«  « 


THE    PORTRAIT 

BY  H.  F.  GOULD. 

Well,  thou  art  done,  cold,  silent  thing; 

Unconscious,  —  breathless,  —  yet  with  powet 
A  flood  of  feelings  deep  to  bring, 
Unknown  until  the  present  hour 

And  wherefore  done  to  life  so  true  ? 

Not  human  pride  nor  vanity 
Could  cause  the  artist  hand  to  do 

And  show  the  world  a  deed  like  tliee ! 

And  was  it  simple,  most,  or  kind. 

To  have  upon  tlie  canvass  cast 
My  semblance  ;  thus  to  leave  beliind 

My  shadow,  when  myself  am  past  ? 

1  view  thee  as  a  piece  composed 

To  last  when  I  am  gone  from  sight,  — 
When  time  and  earth  to  me  are  closed, 

To  be  in  time  and  cartlily  light 

■■r 

I  know  not  if  another  eye  S 

Will  ever  weep  beside  thee  more  K: 

Than  mine  does  now,  I  know  not  why,— 
It  never  dropped  such  tears  before. 


TUB    POKTKAIT  263 

'T  is  this,  perhaps,  that  makes  me  weep,  — 
The  tliought  that  I  may  pass  away. 

And  those  who  have  thee  then  to  keep 
Will  glance  at  thee,  and  still  be  gay 

But  why  should  grief  be  felt  by  me, 
For  fear  that  others  will  not  grieve? 

And  what  to  others,  then,  will  be 
A  shade  of  life  that  I  may  leave  ^ 

But,  Btill  resistless  from  their  spring, 
Gush  up  these  hot,  mysterious  tears, 

Whilst  thou,  cold,  stoic,  heartless  thing, 
Dost  wear  a  smile  that 's  set  for  years ' 

Years!    Ah!  but  t!ien,  when  years  uhall  wipe 

From  being  every  line  of  tlice, 
The  spirit,  wh-fh  thy  prototype 

Enshrined,  shall  live  eternally 


GUESS   MY   NAME! 

Go,  gather  from  the  laughing  wave, 

AVliere  rip(>les  briglit  o"cr  sea-shells  shine  J 

Tho  sweetest  tone  thine  ear  can  crave,  — 
A  sweeter  voice  than  this  is  mine. 

Go,  listen  to  the  dancing  leaves, 
When  summer's  wooing  winds  are  nigh; 

M7  brenlh,  a  softer  music,  weaves 
Around  the  heart  its  magic  sigh. 

In  every  land  where  young  hearts  feel. 
Love  holds  my  service  very  dear,  — 

And  many  a  bond  1  'm  called  to  seal, 
Wo  witness,  but  the  parlies,  near. 

Both  dear  and  cheap,  at  once  am  I,— 
A  thing  that  love  will  give  away, 

And  flhining  gold  can  hardly  buy. 
Oh,  need  I  now  my  name  display  t 


I" 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

2i'k.'fAl  33 

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